


Redemption

by MagicaAria



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Ending, Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Original Character(s), Possessive Behavior, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Redemption, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2020-12-22 20:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 100,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaAria/pseuds/MagicaAria
Summary: Resurrected after their final battle, Emet-Selch, now mortal, is provided with another chance at life-at the behest of the hero he nearly slew. Upon their quest for redemption, the Ascian seeks to aid the Warrior of Light in regaining what is left of her shards, her soul, to prepare for the coming of the final unsundered, Elidibus.~Newly Edited to fit MSQ up to 5.3~





	1. Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> As a forward to this story:
> 
> Pairings listed are mostly for references made to past relationships had with the WOL and those of her Free Company/friends/etc. Various appearances of NPCs and OC characters will occur throughout, through explanation will be provided as to who the OCs are later. The main relationship, as you can see, will be descending into an eventual WOL-Azem/Hades-Emet-Selch. 
> 
> Rating is listed as Explicit for violent/gore-ish battles, sauce, and emotional/mental health issues that will appear in the future. Warnings for these chapters will be located in “notes” or in the titles at the start of each, so please read those if you are sensitive to this content.
> 
> Text styles for this chapter, and others, are broken between Hydaelyn speaking, which is bold in '__'  
Dialogue which is "__"  
and Hades at the very end with just bold text, denoting the change in his voice as he transforms into Big Bad Daddy Mode. 
> 
> Again, thank you for coming by to read and as ever and always, any suggestions, recommendations, or comments are greatly appreciated!~

“Do not presume to speak of _my_ future,” Emet-Selch hissed, the flaming visage of his mask fading as he shrugged at her. Even now he couldn’t ignore it, the familiar sheen gleaming from within her soul, overflowing with Light, radiance. It was blinding, “And _you_, why waste your final moments in futile defiance?”

Emilia wheezed, limping towards the Ascian with heavy, misbegotten tears upon her face. Her boots scraped, her legs unable to lift from her exhaustion, her pain. Everything hurt, the Light, her bones, her body. She could see them, the tall robed figures screaming, running, their beautiful hollow voices choking, begging her for a mercy she couldn’t provide. 

Emet-Selch began to chuckle, breaking through the silence that had taken between them. He looked upon her, “Weary wanderer,” His voice was jeering, spiteful, “Succumb, end this charade. We’ve both taken in your strength, I know you’ve no fight left to fight, no life left to live.” 

The Warrior of Light made to speak, but whatever she’d wished to say, it was swallowed by an intense, throbbing burn. She grasped a hand on her throat, the other taking to her hair. Luminous ink spilled from her lips, her knees buckling to the stone with a crash of armor and weight. She tried to brace herself, but the impact alone tore through her armor, ripping against her flesh. Blood found its way to the surface of the cloth, staining her armor and the crystalline ground in turn.

As the pain spiked, her teeth clamped down upon her lips in a futile attempt to stifle tit. A curdling scream of ink and light ripped from her chest, splitting the air with shattering, bone-chilling horror. It burned, all of it, searing, worse than any episode she’s endured yet. Her skull felt as if it was breaking beneath her fingers, repulsive chimes and cracking glass filling her ears, her eyes.

“Please, Hydaelyn, please, let me contain it, let me…” She chanted the mantra between gasps and coughs, praying to the Mother, “_…_Let me help him, I...I can't kill anyone else, please...I beg you.”

Emet-Selch smirked triumphally, throwing his arms out to his sides with a playwright’s sense of grandeur, “You see, my dear? The Light will _not_ be denied,” He laughed, a hollow, dark sound now echoing about the platform, “Surrender to your fate, let the transformation take you.”

Another wretch of light found its way from her throat, spilling upon the ground with hot, sizzling smoke. The world around her was beginning to fade.

“Rise up, Sin Eater, in madness, fury!” The Ascian’s eyes could see it, the aether devouring her organs, her muscles—he could see the networks being overrun, failing, faster now than any before. Whatever color he felt he could have recognized in that soul was simply oversaturated with _white_, disgusting and repulsive in its glow. “Take to the skies, devour the vermin infesting the land which is rightfully _ours_!”

“NO!” Thancred burst from the ground with a flash, his gunblade drawn dangerously over his shoulder.

The Architect hissed, bringing forth a field of darkness to shield himself as their bodies clashed, he to his arm and other with sword. The Ascian had been careless, he knew the Hyur lacked aether and without it, he was a danger, a liability. He was cursing himself; he knew he should have kept a better eye on him-he was so close to ruining his performance.

A hollow, terrifying ring resounded against the barrier, a bullet suddenly coming loaded into the chamber of the smaller man’s gun. As they made eye contact, the latter’s snarl twisted to a cocky, arrogant smirk, “Now, Ryne! Now!”

The red-headed child gasped and darted for the miqo’te hero before her, desperation written clearly upon her scared, pure face. He could see it, the blessing of the Mother surging in her fingers.

“_No…No, No, NO, NO!” _Emet-Selch ground his teeth, the desire to kill burning hot within his chest, veins. He didn’t need the man alive for this act, he’d been a thorn in his side for long enough.

With a snap, the Architect bent his fingers, grazing upon the arcane energies swirling beneath his breast. With minimal effort, he turned it, pressing and coiling until it exploded, throwing the hyur man back from his arm with a heavy, thundering crash. Thancred groaned as he hit the floor, his body rolling and landing, falling limp beside that of the Warrior of Light.

With him dispensed, the Ascian turned back to the girl, a pang of guilt taking him. Despite the pretense, he had loved children; their curiosity, their minds. He’d adored teaching them, watching over them and this child had been no different. He couldn’t...remember every experience he’d had with the young minds of Amaurot-it had been so long-but she’d given him a glimmer of it. She’d taken upon him well, this child, over their journey upon the First, defended him more times than he could count. The Oracle would grow to be cunning, witty-a shame.

He built his aether again, a spear of darkness shooting from his outstretched hand. “Please, Mother, please, let me-” Emilia screamed, but she was frozen to the ground. The pain had now crippled her; she could see the sharpened blade of Aether launch from the Ascian’s hand, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t block it.

All sound stopped, the air stale, stiff.

It stuck hard.

He looked away, unable to take in his deed; he knew how the darkness would wound her, the Oracle.

The red-headed child slammed to her knees, the air fading from her breast with a huff of a tense, choking sigh. “Fight it, Emilia,” she winced as the hero turned, her body shaking, convulsing. Ryne smiled at her, tears now streaming down her cheeks, “Y-you have to…hold on…for those…who can fight, for those…you can-”

And she fell.

**‘_Hear, Feel, Think…’_**

The crack in Emilia’s mind tore, her screams deafening within the new ring of voidal darkness. Emet-Selch clenched his fists, his body betraying him—why was this so hard, why was he having regrets? His heart was begging him to do something, but...if he could just go to her, he still had time, he could still stay the turn, swallow it within his magicks. She would succumb eventually, but…for now, he could…he could maybe make it painless? Was that not mercy?

‘**_Heed me, my child, will yourself to the blessing.’_**

Space.

Cold, empty.

Emilia looked up from the ground, an expanse of white nothingness stretching around her, above her. She sat like that, stretched belly first upon the ground, the plane, staring and oh _so _tired. The hero didn’t know how long she was there, but should this be her damnation, she would be content. 

“Ah, it seems we are at an end.” She made to sit up, to measure her guest, explain, but the strength in her arms gave. With a crash, Emilia fell back to the ground, shaking, near tears with her frustration.

A boot suddenly stepped alongside her, coming to a halt along its partner. Ardbert, her friend, comrade, looked upon her with calculating, tired sadness. He wore the same Warrior’s armor, bloodied, but well-kept besides; had he his body, she felt tears would be on his cheeks, “H-how so?”

“We both know.”

When he failed to elaborate further, she grunted. “What do we…know?

“You are dying. You...have nothing left, my friend,” The Warrior smiled, sadly, “But I can see the resolve within you, our course.”

Emilia winced, her heart felt like it had withered, shattered. If he could sense it, understand it, then of course he knew her feelings, sentiment. This city, her journey, the story...the people, burning and screaming_. _He didn’t have say it, but she knew; Hydaelyn wouldn’t save her this time, she would have to carry through, kill him. “I…I have to protect them. I…I can’t-”

Silence overtook them.

It was meticulous, tense, but she waited, willing him to speak his peace before defending her prospect. When no sound came, she looked back. Ardbert’s expression stiffened, his eyes looking beyond her, puzzled, but in a way, reflective. “Tell me then, Warrior of Light,” She scowled, “Darkness. Could you do it? If you had the strength to take another step, would you brandish the sword?”

“I-,” The chimes, the pain, were returning quickly but he made no motion in contest. The agony would come; ‘twas ebbing, flowing, but this felt...this moment felt different. A choice.

“Could you save our worlds?”

Emilia didn’t reply, but she made to stand, teeth grinding at the will she put into her movements, the strain. She’d managed to her knees, but before she could move further the Warrior extended his axe, smiling, “Come then, we will fight as one.”

** _‘The scales will be drawn; his soul shall be weighed.’_ **

Emet-Selch covered his eyes, blinding Light erupting from the hero opposite of the platform. He was sure, as much as he had been on his course, that she had finally fallen, succumbed to the transformation. Her aether had dwindled, a star, fading and collapsing, and now-

_“This world is not yours to end,”_ A blacked cleaver suddenly split through the obtrusion, vanquishing the brightness from his eyes with a crash of crystal and smoke. Stone shattered as its end met with the long, gorish blade, a gash now torn, resting, through the crystalline floor. He removed his hands slowly, watching as steam began to fade from his stage.

_‘N…no…’ _His heart ran cold, blood seizing within his breast.

Her.

Robed, clad with her mask and brilliant, abundantly _glorious_ aether. The woman scowled as she watched him, frightening blue eyes taking in his gold, shining as bright as ice, the sky. Her hair swept around her, wild, flitting past her hood and shoulders like grass upon a meadow. He wanted to weep, his soul yearning to touch her, feel her, desperate to tell her of his journey, his affections. Thousands of years had he toiled, centuries of conquering, death, planning— to gaze upon her in this moment, this call to death. Zodiark take him, she looked as she had on the final day-beautiful, wonderful. Her soul was a beacon, shining and glittering, hopeful.

“N-no, it can’t be…” His lips shook, knees threatening to buckle, eyes brimming with tears. He tried, he tried so hard to memorize that visage, that color and face, but...

He blinked.

A Warrior, a man of red and grey armor now morphed in her place, shining, as brilliantly as she had but stronger, angrier. He was familiar, but Emet-Selch couldn’t place him-not a Scion? _“This is our future, our story.”_

Blink.

** _‘Deeds shall be recounted, balanced.’_ **

The miqo’te woman appeared once again, her cloak billowing behind her in tattered, ragged remnants of its once former glory. Blood stained her shaking legs, but the Ascian could see the resolution, the strength that flowed behind her mismatched eyes.

_‘He had a role to play.’ _

“Gah, a...a trick of the light,” Emet-Selch brought his gloves to his eyes, covering himself from her view. If he would have tears, if he would pause his course from a glimmer of...of her, then he would not have this pathetic creature look at him so. She would be with him once more, upon this end. This is what it was for; the Rejoining, their struggle and their pain. She would be with him in the end, “You are a broken husk, _hero,_ nothing more.”

“I may be broken, but I will do what I must,” She called, tightening the grip on her blade. He could see her eyes, the sheen, the tears, “I will do this: there are worlds who can get fight, there are people upon this star that I can yet save!”

He pressed his gloves into his eyes, anger beginning to roll off of him. “_For those you can yet save_, ever the dramatic, ignorant fool.” His magicks had snapped their seal, seeping through his visage, cooling his skin, coloring the air. He had a job to finish, a role to complete, the curtain couldn’t fall on him yet. “How can you hope to stand against me alone, weak as you are?”

“We will stand together!”

Both the Warrior and the Ascian turned, genuine shock taking both of their faces. The Exarch, unhooded and depleting, stood, leaning upon his cane with the whole of his weight. He glared at the Ascian between bloodied, swollen eyes, a glowing resolve burning in each.

“How did—” Emet-Selch clicked his tongue, straightening himself to his full height. He ran a hand through his hair, taking in a measured, calculated breath. He’d bound the Exarch, left him in the care of his shades in Amaurot. ‘Twas impossible to believe his aetheric bonds could have broken, not without a considerable amount of power, strength. From his experience, the Exarch’s powers weakened the further he was from his _oh so precious_ tower; the concept rubbed him the wrong way - had he... he _underestimated_ him? “I’m surprised you can even stand at all.”

The man coughed, pulling himself up upon the support of his staff, though weak as he was. The Ascian could sense his swell of aether, the Allagan magicks heaving from his soul into the air, “I cannot well leave matters half finished.” Emet’s eyes narrowed, “Let expanse contract, eon become instant.”

**‘_Oblivion shall judge; deeds which have yet been left unfinished, recalled.’ _**

He ground his teeth, watching as portals of aether began to appear around the Warrior. His performance, his plans, _meticulously_ wrought, formed-withering away before him by no more than...than a _shard,_ an insect, _vermin_. “Damn you,” He growled, “Damn you all and your _insufferable_ blessing!” 

Beams of flaring light suddenly broke into the sky, burning, searing from within azure runes and stretching well past the sky. “Champions from beyond the rift, heed my call!” The Exarch pulled himself up, and with his remaining strength, he smashed his staff into the ground beneath him. He collapsed to a knee with the impact, but remained upright, looking to her, the Warrior, with a smile. 

Emet-Selch felt the rage return, pooling into his chest, his aether. Zodiark was calling, chastising his wishes, his plans; he should have killed the matron when he’d had the chance. He should have ended this, killed her in the Crystarium, heeded Elidibus’ warnings, his own judgements.

A hollow ring, bell, sounded, the burning sigils upon the ground suddenly widening, silhouette’s appearing within each. “Emet-Selch,” Emilia ripped her blade from the ground, swinging it back upon her shoulders with the ease of a seasoned guardian. She met his gaze, “What will come shall, but I...don’t wish to do this. If you stay this path, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” 

He chuckled, darkly, deeply. The very concept of her protesting against him was absurd-she knew not his strength, she knew not the _depth_ of his power, the _love_ of his people. “Very well, let us proceed with your final judgement then_, hero_.” He lifts his hand before him, the blackened aspect of his aether dripping from his gloves, his body, like ink, “Let the victor shall write the tale, and the vanquished become its villain.”

Venomous, writhing clouds of darkness began to swirl around him. Cool, ice-like chill seeped to his limbs, his bones, cracking the ground as he began his final march towards her. He could see them, tears, fresh, streaming from her eyes as she watched, “But come, let us cast aside titles and pretense. It’s about time we show our true selves to one another.”

_“_Let me be strong enough,” Emilia whispered.

His ancient shell broke, the glow of his mask flaring to life like a red flame in the dark. Zodiark’s voice rang in his head, jeering, shouting. Tendrils of aether swallowed his legs, his arms, burning like smoke from his skin. His teeth bore as he smirked, wild, **_“I, am Hades.”_** His voice fell, a rumbling, powerful bass, mimicking the call of Zodiark in his mind, **_“Paragon, Architect. He who shall awaken our brethren from their dark, voidal slumber.” _**

  
Emilia’s throat clenched, the power of his name striking her like a knife, a blade.

** _  
“Show me your vaulted strength, hero, and I shall expose the lie of your fragmented existence.”_ **


	2. Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On with Chapter 2! 
> 
> To summarize, this is more from the final battle, as well as a short transition into the drama coming in the next chapter. Again, the Mother's voice will be the Italicized and encased with Bold ‘___’ ‘s.

_“I…will…not…yield!” _

Emilia’s body fell, her legs taking the brunt of her collapse. Her aether was fading, shattering-she could feel the blessing, the Mother, diminishing from her veins, her body. She was so cold, bloodied, so _weak_. Her chest stung, run through by various aethereal spears and shards, hands and legs shaking with exhaustion, dread.

The spirits behind her held, but as Emilia sat, she could feel their strain, the weakness that was taking them. She knew it was futile, of course; Emet-Selch, Hades, was so much stronger than she’d thought, than she, they, could be. The Auracite couldn’t contain him, not alone.

_“Should I surrender this fight, what will become of it all..?”_ She looked up to the creature, the arcane entity...Hades. He was doubled over, his large, clawed arms holding him from the platform. As he howled, the glowing shards of white Auracite protruding from his torso grew, weighing him down to the surface. The masks, those of which she felt she could recognize, some not, floated from his back, blinking as if to disappear, fall. Her chest aches to watch his anguish, pain, _“What will become of our triumphs, our hopes, our…our despair.”_

“Please, Emet-Selch,” Her eyes were raw with tears, voice weak, cracking. The hero clamped down with her teeth, pushing herself forward. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t-Hydaelyn would be here, she would stop this, listen.

Emilia cried out as her legs buckled over the crystalline floor. As she fell, her body gave without pause, the cleaver, previous gripped within her hand, bowed and crashed to the ground. The tears were making it harder and harder to see him, “P-Please stop this, we will find a way,” She managed to turn her jaw from the ground, pushing herself to her elbows, “I-I will help you, Hades. The Rejoining will not salve your hurt, Zodiark will only cause you more suffering. Please!”

_“And what of this anguish which yet burns in my breast, hero, even after the passing of eons; there is no change, no remorse!” _His booming voice roared through the platform, verging to shatter her ears, “_What can you hope to do for my pain?!” _

Ardbert began screaming alongside her, begging her to fight, to end it. He’d bent to Emilia’s sword, trying in vain to grasp it, hand it to her. Behind, the Scions, D’ve, Yvette, they stood, hands outstretched with aetheric tethers shooting forward, feeding the auracite, “I-I will-“

“_**There**_ **_is_** _**n**_**_othing.” _**His claws racked over the crystal, tearing through the ground as if it were nothing more than cloth. As he rose, a blast of aethereal darkness rocked the platform, covering their sight with shades of blackness. With another roar, he reached to his chest, grabbing ahold of the protruding shards, **_“I will not let it all be for naught!”_**

“Emilia, please, you have to get up!” Yvette called out to her, her eyes, too, filled with tears, “We can’t hold him, you have to finish it!”

“Now, mine friend, strike with all thine might!” Urianger yelled in turn, his arm extended around the Au’ra’s shoulders. She’d been struck by a spear, directly through her leg, and despite the pain she refused to fall. D’ve came to her side, his own hand interweaving with hers, their light burning brighter, warmer. All of them, Scions, hero’s alike, stood waiting. Watching. “We cannot last without thine blessing!”

‘**_Hear, feel, think.’_**

Her body twisted, sword gathering momentum as she spun on the platform. It burned, hot, horrible, as she continued, gaining speed, force. The whistling of metal and light hummed as one, singing as she made her final rotation. Ardbert gathered her, his hand extending through the hero’s arm as the blade released to the sky, straight for the eldrich mage’s chest. Hades aether had engulfed them, but the Light burned harder, brighter, searing through the dark with unrelenting speed.

‘_Please-’_

‘**_Redemption; you bade my call and I shall endeavor the plea, Daughter-’_**

** **

** **

His heart wretched, shattering as the Light struck him. It was horrid, hot, swallowing his magicks like an ocean, churning and demolishing him from beneath his breast. He could feel himself grasping for it, the crystal, the blade, but it was gone—torn through him.  
  
Hades could feel a deep chill running over him. Zodiark’s voice was fading from his mind. His demands, his screams, were no more than a dull hum to the roar he’d felt just prior.

It was done, his role, his play-no more schemes and plots, these mortals had proven themselves their worth. He sighed, empty, tired. They would push on, she would live-bear the burdens, this hero, this...this reflection. He didn't need to kill again.

‘**_Reparation for a lifetime of blood, for a lifetime of servitude-the Blessing will ever endure.’_**

** **

** **

“NO!” Emilia shrieked as she fell to her knees, the ghost of her blade visible through the hole in his chest. Her body was trembling, armor and guards all broken and mangled again her limbs, bloodied, weak. The Scions stood behind the Warrior of Light, her team in tow-watching. Their hearts broke at the sight of their hero, their friend, sobbing upon the ground for their enemy.

Emet-Selch lowered his hood, the cloth of the Ascians now admonished upon his skin. He took her in, the anguished eyes, the weakened form. She’d done it. He didn’t know how, but she’d been rejoined-another shard collected into her soul. His lips twisted to a broken, ghastly smile, their gazes meeting with knowledge, with understanding.   
  


She choked on tears as he spoke, “Remember…”

‘**_There is yet mends to be made; I will spare the sanction, and mine bidding shall be restitute.’_**

“Remember us…” His hands brushed over the gash in his torso, lilting over the edges, softly, thoughtfully. His skin still burned with her aether, her soul. It was familiar. Achingly warm, comforting.

“No…no, _please_,” Tears were falling from her chin, pooling around her reddened, dark eyes. Her face, her hands, body, quivered with a horrible, foreboding sorrow. She couldn't have another comrade fall-not like Haurchefant, not like her squadron, those soldiers, those children and villages, not again.

Hades knew. He could see it, the snap in her chest, the pain in her heart. She would go on—she would endure. 

With his final breath, the Ascian smiled, his form fading into the air, the Lifestream. “Remember…that we once lived…”

** _‘In turn, you shall be sparred, dear Daughter…dear Son.’_ **

** **

“E-Emilia?”

Warm.

She was warm.

“Emilia, it’s me, are you awake?”

A voice, it was familiar, a tenor with a slight, sweet accent.

There was a gasp, a chair falling. Her voice didn’t work, it hurt, like blades in her throat. She tried to move, but her mind lulled, turning slowly, painfully. 

“I-I’ll send for the medics, hold on!”

‘**_Awaken.’ _**

** **

** **

The Ascian felt himself falling, his body propelling through cool, rippling air. He was tired, so _so_ tired—it was a nasty exhaustion, a bone deep weariness. It weighed upon his head, his shoulders, it was dragging him down. Guilt. Worry. Shame. Acceptance.  
  
He could hear something, muffled, but gentle. It had vibrant color, beautiful, expansive-whatever it was, if called as chimes in the night, beckoning, cherishing his name, his title.

He tried to move, but his limbs felt too heavy. His throat ached, chest raw; from what he’d known of the void, of Oblivion, feeling was not a luxury afforded to the damned.

  
Elidibus would be pleased on his visit, at least.

** _‘’Tis the space between, my child.’ _ **

** **

A voice.  
Articulate, loving.  
It churned something within him, but he couldn’t tell what.

‘**_Bear yourself to me and witness thine deeds, the precipice awaits.’ _**

** **

His body suddenly began to slow, halting, suspended upon air. The bells had grown, but they now joined with harps, with chords and chorus song; lovely, velvet to his ears. With a margin of effort, which he’d be ashamed to admit otherwise, the Ascian worked open his eyes, searching. 

It was a sky, space, blinking and shining with millions of stars, of shards. As his golden iris’ focused, a bright, luminous crystal began to glow from beneath him. The song around them quietly diminishing with a final, quiet, plagal cadence.

An azure sheen coated her being, the same stars weaving around her like dancers, lacing through her bodice, emerging, dying. ‘**_Unto me, servant of Zodiark, a plea has been made.’_**

** **

He scoffed, the very idea he was here-witnessing this Primal, was enough to make him verge upon hysterics. It had been centuries, eons; he was so tired, so _drained_, and an eternity longer was calling, “A plea? I’m afraid your meaning is lost, _Crystal Mother_; no such plea was made.”

**_‘I speak of thine fate.’ _**Her sheen grew with each utterance, **_‘The Warrior of Light had bid thee such, and in turn, I shall offer thee recompense.’_**

** **

Hades’ eyes examined her, trying to read the meaning between her words, but he couldn’t sense it, not as he had before. He paused to watch the spirits dancing around her, taking note of their glow, their song-it’d struck up again, softer, but warm. “I want no such thing,” He snapped. The very audacity of this putrid _God_, “I’d rather the void, if you’d please."

  
The light flared, **_‘Balance is the price, my son; for the deeds sewn in his name, as a servant of Zodiark, you have rightfully earned as such.’_**

  
  
He had strength enough to roll his eyes, “As I said, now if you would be so kin-“

** _‘To reassemble that from which you have thrown into discordance, the blood thou hath shed, in his name, a choice is now left for thee to fill. The Fate’s sate to thee an offer-oblivion left for the will of anon.’ _ **

** **

Hades chuckled, “If you are offering me a chance into the Lifestream, _Hydaelyn, _you waste my time.” The very thought of her extending that choice, extending compassion, made rage roll through him. The Lifestream was for hers, of those kindly and weak-for heroes; he would seek eternal damnation with a century worth of pain than have that warmth coat his soul.

** **

**_‘Mine Champion hast sanctioned for such. I bade her call; in turn, during thine battle, thou hast lost a shard of him, of his essence.’ _**His heart froze. **_‘The price was equivalent. Mine Champion, mine daughter, has in turn lost a shard of mine-memories scattered, crux waning into that of her own undoing.’_**

** **

“You’re saying,” The Ascian’s eyes narrowed, panic fluttering through him. She was right. Something...a piece, a fragment in his chest, it was cracked. He could feel it, as deep as it was within his soul. The whispering, that of Zodiark’s word, he...he couldn't _hear_ it. “In our battle, you say the hero, too, lost a shard of herself, but…what of the one rejoined, that…Warrior?”

**_‘Mine son hast fused in turn with her, yes, but in so doing it has shattered her vessel.’ _**The Light flickered yet again, **_‘She will continue, she may yet collect that of others, but upon her journey a fate was foretold, borne unto me from the void, from yours; mine Champion will fall.’_**

** **

** **

.

“Emilia, Emilia, can you hear me!?”

Her body was covered in sweat. The clothes were sticky, cold-everything, the cloth, the air, it _hurt_.

_“Remember…Remember us…” _

She could feel her skin, muscles, burning, shaking; limbs clenched, drawn. Her mouth was open, but air couldn’t come-

“Someone call for the Scions, please-” The voice, accent. D’ve. “She needs the Oracle!”

Choking, spinning.  
  
Her eyes were closed but it was so violent, so fast. “Just hold on, Ryne is coming, she can help you.” A hand, jewels, nails-gripping hers like a vice.

“_Remember…”_

.

“You’re saying,” Hades tapped his temple in contemplation. In their final moments, during their battle, during her final joust of strength, he felt-in some capacity-he had sensed the disruptions in her aether. He’d placated it to nothing more than exhaustion, usage-she was dying, after all. Once the platform had quelled, he had witnessed the same; overuse and heavy saturation, bright, though he’d still presumed what little flux he’d borne to be of the new shard. She was of eight, now. “She is to die?”

** _‘Her bond to me yet wanes, my son. Strong in will, but as you have borne witness, she will perish upon the course.’_ **

** **

The Ascian saw, as the crystal had said. A vision, as he’d seen the hero endure upon her journey, splitting through his mind. She was lying, heaving, upon a bed-her heart was hammering, he could feel the vertigo, the swelling and churning behind her eyes. It’d made him sick, but as she said, it was just the beginning, a precursor to the course she’d driven her fate upon. He could see her screaming, pleading for death, for mercy- “Since you are divulging this information, I can only assume this is to do with my _recompense_, or whatever you called it.”

‘’**_Tis truth,’ _**The singing shards began to dwindle, fewer in number to that of what they’d been as he’d arrived. **_‘Thou shalt provide balance to her Light. Knowledge of eons, strength, soul.’_**

** **

“And why would I do this, pray tell?” He rolled his eyes, chuckling blithely, “Have you forgotten my allegiance, Mother?”

**_‘Son of mine, worshipper of Zodiark.’ _**His body began to float down, descending to a crystalline platform now formed before the Primal. She knew his heart, at least, despite her insistence of him being that of her own,**_ ‘In turn for thine deeds, thine own essence shall come to quell that of the blight, allowing her to rejoin with those of her sunder.’_**

** **

“In turn, to help you and yours-the hero has woven a strong tale, Hydaelyn, but I will not-“

** **

** _ ‘For the experience thou possesseth, for the pieces thou hast lost, I shall bestow unto thee a blessing, to sanction that of thine weakened self.’_ **

** **

His eyes narrowed as the platform came to a halt. Anger was boiling, seething through his chest, his hands, “I will _not_ accept your wretched benediction; have you forgotten what-“

** _‘Thou shalt complete this task, Servant of Zodiark, son of mine. Thou shalt be received of your life’s work, liberated. Thou shalt endeavor this journey, for ere the day come in which she finds her fourteen. Upon that day I shall provide thee a gift; rejoined.’_ **

** **

** **

.

“She’s here!” D’ve called, his hands pushing past the curtains to her room, her bed. The medics cleared for him, but a few lingering nurses still stood to her side, attending to the erratic vitals now blaring upon aetheric monitors. A broken, heavy wheeze came from her lips as he approached.

“D’ve,” The gingered Oracle came jogging in behind him, Scions and company close on her heels.

Thancred pulled on the girl’s shoulder, stopping her from running to his side, “What’s happened?” 

The Miqo’te ran his hands through his fading, auburn hair, eyes wet with tears, “I-I don’t know, I was sitting with her and she had started to mumble something.” He gestured to the empty chair by the wall, “I c-couldn’t understand, and when I bent to check on her, well, then this-“

The group followed his gaze, taking in the pitiful state of their comrade. Her hair was slick, stuck along her forehead and cheeks, dulled by the mixture of sweat and dirt still present on her skin. The bandages that’d been wrapped around her chest and neck had bled through, profusely, staining the linen they’d swathed her in upon their return. Her flesh shone as they gathered near her, a pale sheen to match the ghastly features on her face, the hollow depth of her eyes, “H-Her aether is as it was in the Tempest,” Y’shtola remarked quietly, bringing her hand to her lips, “I…can see the Light…she’s suffering.”

Ryne ripped herself from her guardian’s hand with a sudden burst of force, “Let me look at her.”

Thancred looked down at her with a measure of surprise, “Ryne, y-“

“I need to see.” She quipped. 

“I-” D’ve’s gazed halted the Hyur’s protest. Both of them stared, waiting for him to continue, but he turned away with a huff, “…Be quick with it.”

The nurses nodded and backed away from the bed, leaving room for the young Oracle to work. Hesitantly, she moved over to Emilia’s side, stopping just above her head. The woman wheezed softly, her chest rattling as she began to exhale. Ryne remembered her making the same sounds as they’d carried her back, as they’d taken her away from... 

She took in a breath, composing herself, and gently lowered her hands to Emilia’s temples. A slight gasp escaped as the woman beneath her flinched. Y’shtola nodded as her fingers began to illuminate, moving to allow the Oracle insight into the sole essence of the hero’s aether. As the girl stood over the Warrior, the remainder of them held, a sudden, eerie silence taking to air of the room.

As the glow of the light began to brighten, swell, Urianger and the remaining Scions made their way inside. They, too, entered with silence, but as the elezen made his way to the bed, his gaze fell to the Summoner standing adjacent, “D’ve, dids’t thy happen to hear what, pray tell, our Knight had been murmuring in her thrall of incubi?”

The armored miqo’te shook his head. He looked to his hands, frowning-he didn’t hear her, but…he had _felt _something. “N-no, not that I could make out.”

Urianger nodded and stepped aside, Alisae now taking his place, “Well,” she moved to the footboard with an impatient sigh, “What’s the verdict? Is she okay or not?” 

The brightness from Ryne’s hands faded as she turned back to her companions, “I think she’s okay for now, but…I could hear voices, one was the Mother’s, speaking to her.”

The group shifted uncomfortably, but D’ve leaned in, “What was she saying?”

“She’s…speaking of balance,” The Oracle’s eyes opened slowly, sadly, “She talked of her soul, something about a blight, but…When I saw inside, I could see it, fully…”

“See what?” Alisae chided.

“Her soul,” The girl’s eyes began to water, “It’s…broken.”

A wave of silence filled them as Urianger spoke, “Prithee, could this be an effect from the Light itself, the warden’s, mayhap?”

“We’d said she was to her limits when we’d made it to Amaurot, I remember,” Alphinaud stated, turning back to the child, “Did it look the same then?”

Ryne shook her head, “No. It’s different…”

Y’shtola nodded in turn, “I have not the sight as you, but The Oracle is right,” The miqo’te turned her head, “I can feel her pain, to some extent-she’s fighting it, but...it means to devour her."

.

“Sir, we’ve found a man by the river!”

He hurt.

Immensely, deeply.

“Fetch the guard, we need to take him to the infirmary!”

Everything; his hair, his nails, the teeth clenched in his skull.

He tried to move, but his body screamed in protest. Every limb, every tendon, it felt like it’d been torn, shredded with hot needles.

“Sir.” His eyes wouldn’t open. Sleep, sleeping would help.

“C-can you hear me, Sir?” Something began to grind beside him, a boot? Dirt? “My patrol and I, we’re going to move you to our carriage.”

A grunt of protest made to swell in his throat, but the movement of his body choked it to a haphazard bawl. Hands now, cold and metallic, grabbed his biceps, his legs, hauling him from the ground and onto something soft, something warm. His back ached, body burning from the sudden touch, the feel of his skin. “H-He has a large would on his chest sir, do we have any-”

His mouth moved but the words never came, his throat was too dry, stuck between dust and what had felt to him as ash. Hydaelyn had a sick sense of humor, “Oh, oh, he’s alive!” 

“Oh of course he’s ‘live, lad,” Someone new, old, “Jus’ look at ‘em-man like that won’t die ‘hat easy, now will ‘e?”

“Aye, sir,” Hades could feel his mind beginning to weaken, stretched beyond its limits, “Lyrne, send word to the infirmary that we will arrive, we’ve a man in need of medical attention.”

Sleep.

.

Ah.

Voices, again.

Drips of moisture, falling, echoing on stone. They were distant, but they carried to him well enough. Voices again, frantic, scared, “I-I’m so sorry Exarch, I thought him to be someone else, I-”

A soft clank, metal, “Minerve, do not worry yourself so,” He recognized that one, it’s low tenor. Tired, annoyed, “I will take care of things from here.”

“T-thank you, s-sir.” Another clink. “Before I leave, would…would you like for me to send for them?”

“Yes, on their behest.” A moment of silence, “The Warrior is our main concern, so if they may spare Urianger, or Y’shtola, tell them I would be most grateful.”

The elezen, and the…ah, the woman, the one he’d plucked from the stream. She hated him, if he remembered correctly-but so did most of the Warrior’s charge. He could feel his mind churning, trying to place their faces, but it was slow, labored. He felt sick.

Footsteps carried, echoing as the voices had-hollow, stone, but something was moving, closer now. “Can you hear me, Emet-Selch?” 

His chest felt tight. The Exarch, how lovely of him to remember his title-the impression must have been warm, considering the venom in his tone.

The main seemed to be waiting for a response, he didn’t have the strength to speak, let alone open his eyes. Hades did try to move his arms, head, but something pulled against it-choking the air in his throat. He coughed, wincing at the flare of pain that’d erupted upon the hemorrhage of his chest.

The man’s voice sighed, angry. “I know not how you managed to live,” A clink, again, something placed upon stone. “But I promise you, you will not harm her again.”


	3. Remember

** _‘Thou shalt complete this task, Servant of Zodiark, son of mine.’_ **

Hades groaned.

‘**_Thou shalt be received of your life’s work, liberated. Thou shalt endeavor this journey-’_**

** **

He pressed against his mind.  
It spun, angrily, willing him back into the realm of torn fabric and mingled, foggy slumber. It took every ilm of his being, but he could feel his body responding, twitching with awareness.

** _‘The day will come in which she finds the fourteen, her soul, and unto thee I shall provide a gift. She wi-’_ **

** **

His eyes, though bleary, began to shift, blink. He could discern shapes, a soft light to his left, a wall, stone to his sides. He made to rub his eyes but winced at the movement, a sudden pull halting his wrists in their place. Hades took note of the chill, groaning inwardly at himself; both of his arms had been bolted to the wall, tethered by an odd, swirling expanse of reddened, aetheric metal. His arms, now aware of their position, began to howl in contest, but he managed to drown out their commentary for the moment; damn Hydaelyn.

He rolled his eyes in annoyance, settling himself to the slow adjustment of his eyes. The stone was uncut, slick and concrete against both his side and the floor beneath. To the left, he could see more of the same. A partial wall of boulder, partitioned by long rods of aethereal steel, mounted vertically to the edges of each. Odd that the vacay into his _humble _abode held such a flimsy entrance, or exit, but at least it provided him some insight to the comings outside. He titled his head slightly; a soft, glowing lantern flickered upon a hallway just beyond his view, darkness filtering in the space unoccupied.

Hades looked back to the room; it slanted upon itself, curving to a drain near the center. There was a bucket to the furthest corner, and he scowled at the prospect of using it. He was an emperor in a past life; even at his worst, he’d never admonished and degraded his prisoners as such to make them do the same as he was, seemingly, being bade to do here.

He should have realized it to begin with, but he was slow, wounded. A small cursory glance over the rest and he’d ascertained what he’d been thinking all along; this was a torture chamber. Cots, comfort, were for those being made to sleep, to rest-this room was meant to break, the stone meant to drown out cries, beatings, a drain to mask the blood. He never took the Exarch for cruelty, but he often mistook men of his ilk for the same-‘twas a misguiding of his, he supposed.

With a sigh, Hades averted his gaze to himself.

He’d been clothed, his chest now wrapped between bandages, and a canvased, linen blouse. It’d been buttoned halfway, the top hanging open to the crux just beneath his breast. He could feel it, the swath they’d laced over him, the stitching now pulling with his breath, his pulse. The wound seemed to respond, a throbbing reminder of his bout with the Warrior of Light, of the sword that’d run him through with her aether, her soul.

He winced at the memory.

His waist, as well, was wrapped, but they’d been adorned with some type of trousers, the material tied tightly around his hips. He looked smaller, he noticed, as though he’d been without food-though that was to be expected, if he was being held prisoner nourishment would be sparing. Previously, he’d had little need for it, though water, or wine, would be quite lovely right now.

Hades felt his back beginning to stiffen, an abstract reminder to the discomforting way in which he’d been sleeping for…how long had he been unconscious? He considered the exchange he’d heard prior, the wound on his chest. It could have been a few days, judging by the aches in his joints, but the gauze had been changed, something he’d remembered the Warrior harping upon during their journey. To prevent infections, better healing, if he recalled her sentiment correctly.

He looked back to his chest, an idea striking him. An influx of aether could quell the bothersome pain, or at least speed his recovery in such a way he could at least think, muse. With a wince, he twisted his wrists, pulling himself back flush into the stone wall. It took a marginable expanse of effort, but he did manage to pull his right hand far enough from the binds to allow him to snap.

It echoed through the room; hallow, empty.

He snapped again, confused.

Again.

Again; panic began to build.

Hades reached deep into his soul.

Again.

He had to focus, despite the anger and deeply rooted fear clenching in his stomach. The concentration of aether was there, he could feel it under the surface, churned, stifled. He pushed further, past memories, lifetimes, to the seal he sensed latched around his core. His creation magicks, his arcane prowess, the swell of his soul, deeply rooted in Amaurot, with the void; it was…chained.

Hades could feel his eyes stinging, unrelenting wrath bubbling. His teeth ground, breath strained and heavy. Hydaelyn had bound his void, his power. “How _dare_ you,” He hissed, the moisture escaping down his cheeks. Vehement hatred seethed in his veins, “How **_dare _**you take away my vestige, my strength.”

‘**_She will be rejoined.’_**

** **

Tears began to flow more freely, a gentle sob racking through his body. Hideous sorrow and pain, cold and hollow, began to worm into his heart, his mind. She’d done it, conserved himself from Zodiark, from his brethren, his course. Oblivion had been so close, and in his own fit of regret, he’d been weak, cursing himself with _Light. _The very damnable _thing _that’d sundered his home, his people, now flowed in him. He wanted to wretch.

Elidibus would pity him, in this state, and if not that, he’d at least lash at him for his own stupidity. He’d welcome it now, any punishment; the void, a blade, something to reprimand him for his weakness, the honeyed words. He could barely recall what the Primal had promised, what she’d enticed him with-it had to do with the hero, in some regard, but…He relaxed his hands, leaning his head to the wall with a slump of defeat. His body ached, a heavy pulse throbbing from his wound, his limbs.

He didn’t know how long he sat in that room, in the quiet. His thoughts seared, unrelenting in their chants, their doubts. Without his arcane abilities, he would surely waste away in this cage, if anything from malnourish, but he vaguely hoped it’d be something a little more prideful than that; though, all things considered, he supposed he was far deserving of worse.

Footsteps began to echo into the hallway, pulling his head from his chest. Multiple footsteps, heated, armored-he had company. 

The Exarch was the first to come into view, his hood pulled back to expose the length of his profile. Hades contemplated his appearance, surprised to note that he’d healed, quite considerably, from the state he’d last witnessed the miqo’te in. Perhaps he’d been unconscious longer than he’d believed?

As the man waved his hands before the bars, they dropped methodically to the floor, sheathed between holes now left exposed in the stone. Two others, the Hyur and the woman from the Lifestream, entered hesitantly behind him. The sour expressions on their faces could have made him laugh, had he been in a better mood. 

“Emet-Selch,” The Exarch began, stepping aside to allow entrance to his charge, “I’ll skip the pleasantries, if I may.”

Hades chuckled, gesturing with his fingers. “Since I am in a state of which little argument can be made, by all means.”

Thancred scoffed, “I see you still retain your attitude, Ascian.”

“But of course, _dear_,” He smirked at the bristled expression that crossed the man’s face, “How else would I manage my entertainment, caged as I am?”

“You’re _caged_ for a reason. You tried to commit mass genocide, if memory serves me,” The Hyur reached back to the gunblade on his back, gripping down on the handle, “But I can change that for you if you’d like, _darling.”_

“Enough,” Y’shtola snapped, glaring to the comrade alongside her. Thancred scoffed and rolled his eyes; always the short-tempered brood, this one. Quietly, he moved back and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the boulder nearest the entrance. The woman’s faded eyes looked back to the Ascian, “I believe I inquire for all of us when I ask, Emet-Selch, be it we’ve all borne witness to your passing, but how is it that you still live?”

Hade’s smirk fell to a scowl. Hydaelyn’s intentions for his rebirth had been clear enough in the void, but to go about it, well, that was left for him to figure out, remember. He’d yet to truly measure his options, but it was aeedless to say, his recently appointed life was something the Scions didn’t necessarily need to understand. “Though your speculations would seem to be correct, I did die, seer.” Not yet, anyway, “Though the purpose behind my reincarnation, well, your guess is as good as mine.”

The Exarch looked down to him with a guarded expression, “They’d found you outside of the Sullen, dried up on the shores wounded, dying.”

He remembered that name. The elven lake, he’d believed. “So I was. Greatly appreciative am I for their kindness.”

“We’ve stayed your injuries, for now,” He gestured to the gauze encasing the Ascians torso, “But we can just as well leave you to the fate you’d coursed in Lakeland, be it you refuse to cooperate.”

He had to choke his laugh; threatening him now? My, they had grown brave in his short absence-though, without his magicks, there was little he could do to reprimand that boldness. No matter how much he wished to. “As well you may.” He smirked to the miqo’te male, “Though I cannot say that the prospect doesn’t sound welcoming, _dearest _Exarch.”

“Told you,” Thancred snapped, rolling his eyes.

The Ascian’s gaze moved, jeering, “By all means, boy, I’ll even hold still for you,” He tilted his neck, “Make it a little easier, hmm?”

Before the Hyur could leap for him the woman raised her hand, again, staying him. As she turned back to Hades, Y’shtola took a step forward. He watched as her misted eyes wandered over him, her brows kitted together tightly, thinking. The look made him uneasy, exposed-she was searching for something, something he couldn’t hide. As she knelt by his feet, she met his gaze with calm, cold scrutiny, “What did she say to you?”

His heart clenched. He knew she meant of the void, of the vision-he too-had shared with their primal, with Hydaelyn. As the silence waned, he chuckled, feigning to mask his surprise; even blind, she was ever the observant one, it seemed. Still, his intentions needed consideration, “I’m sorry, my dear, but some conversations are best kept between involved parties, wouldn’t you say?”

Thancred glared at him, “I told you, he’s just going to-”

The Exarch looked back to the white-haired man then to Hades, a sense of exasperation airing about his posture. “And those involved parties may be who, Emet-Selch?”

The trio’s eyes fell upon him with skeptic, cool silence. “Tell me,” He smirked, leaning back to the stone, “How has your dear hero been faring?”

.

D’ve sighed as he took another drink of his tea. It was bitter, perhaps a little more so than he would normally enjoy, but the distaste was serving to help him to stay awake, focused. He looked up from the balcony of the café, watching as wisps of stars began to filter into the canvas of the Crystarium’s sky. The evening air was cool, but the breeze felt comforting against his skin, more so as the trees rustled, leaves billowing near his ledge, his table.

Upon Ryne’s arrival, Emilia had stabilized, more or less. She’d been visited by a few mages during her rest, but each, as well as the Oracle, had ensured that she’d be able to sleep through the night. He’d asked to stay, despite the Scions incessant pleas for he too, to rest, but as a compromise instead pleaded for shifts in the evening watch. Urianger had bade him to relax before his turn, urging him with the prospect of a new café, close to the Pendant apartments. He’d begrudgingly agreed but had been pleasantly surprised by his friend’s suggestion-D’ve had always enjoyed the atmosphere of these establishments, after all.

With a soft smile, the scholarly miqo’te turned his gaze back to his text, a glimmer of a familiar robe catching his eye. He looked out to the courtyard, surprised to find the Exarch walking brusquely towards the benches below him. D’ve waved gently, a pleasant enough greeting, and was greeted in turn by a crystalline hand gesturing back.

“If you would be so kind, my friend, could you offer me a moment of your time?” He called, gesturing to the gardens which vacated off to his right.

The ginger-haired miqo’te smiled, “Of course, give me just a second!”

With a sweep of his hands, D’ve gathered his texts into his satchel and swung himself over the edge of the balcony. With a flick of his wrist, a pair of coins flipped from his hand and unto the table behind, spinning just before plopping beside his forgotten cup. “Does something trouble you, G’raha?” He landed swiftly, jogging over to his comrade.

“In a manner of speaking.” The smaller man blushed but managed a smile. He’d still not grown used to the sound of his name, “Though, I felt it best to relay my thoughts to you, at least in the moment."

The pair took towards the hedged gardens, each walking side-by-side through the cut path. They were quite pleasant, though D’ve had never entered them before this evening. Each walkway was laced with vibrant flowers, interwoven by combinations of pots or plush shrubbery. “Tell me what ails you, my friend?” D’ve asked, looking down to the miqo’te.

G’raha’s ears lowered slightly, his brow furrowed. “’Tis…complicated, more so than I may be able to express,” He looked up, “For now, perhaps. I feel I may need more confirmations, and thought.”

“I’d be glad to muse with you, then,” The faded hair of the ginger miqo’te bobbed as he nodded, smiling, “Though I know not how much help I may prove to be.”

“The sentiment alone gives me confidence,” Their path swerved, joining into a patch of fountains and strange, delicious looking fruits. As the pair entered into the new scenery, the Exarch took a few steps towards a nearby tree. With a tentative hand, he reached up and plucked down a green pear that’d grown near the end of its branches. He rolled it in his palms, gathering himself, “I…Cannot simply draw my own conclusions, not until I have enough information, but I… am concerned.”

D’ve’s ears twitched, “Go on?”

G’raha sighed, “For our comrade, for our home. This fight has left her in a state worse than I’d ever witnessed, even upon her time in the Source.” 

A jostling of memories suddenly wound through the taller miqo’te’s memory. Journeys, missions, long evenings in which he’d sat alongside his friend, Yvette included; wounded, drunken, sobbing. The Exarch had been correct, however-this, their time on the First, was by far the worst he’d seen to befall his mentor, his friend. “I believe I can agree with your sentiment, in a sense.”

“I…” G’raha’s eyes floated back to the trees, “I…fear it could be her undoing, be it she continue on this self-destructive path. Though,” He sighed, “I feel I may be one of the encouragers at fault.”

D’ve chuckled, “You guilt yourself too much, my friend. You did what you must, Emilia understands this.”

“Mayhap, but…I cannot simply allow myself to ignore this feeling.”

“Feeling?”

“Dread, foreboding,” He fumbled nervously, “I…Have you happened to have spoken with Thancred, Y’shtola?”

D’ve shook his head, the pair of braids by his neck jingling. He’d been avoiding Thancred, “Not since they came to Emilia’s room this morning, why?”

“One of the Crystarium guards noticed something on their Lakeland patrols. As they were delivering supplies to the port village, they happened upon an unconscious man, near dying, by the waterside.” The Exarch’s eyes met with D’ve bright blue, “Much to my surprise, ‘twas someone whom we are all intimately...familiar.”

“W-who?” The miqo’te asked, worrisome butterflies building in his stomach. He’d had a feeling, a sinking, nagging sentiment, though he hadn’t believed it to be anything more than his own anxiety. Emilia had been dreaming, awakening, just before he’d felt it, having witnessed Y’shtola, her rebirth, he knew now; there had been a disturbance in the Lifestream. “I…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s him.” G’raha’s face stiffened, “...Emet-Selch.”

.

The Ascian hissed as he tried, in vain, to ease the soreness in his back. Despite pretense, he truly didn’t enjoy playing the role of the prisoner; his body was beginning to numb, cold to the bone from unpleasant ground and damp air. The wound was still pulsing, sensitive under the gauze-had he been able to see it, he’d be sure the stiches were swollen, irritated by the pulling from his chest. His mind was slower, foggier, since the inquiry with his visitors. Had he been able to reach any measure of comfort, he’d most likely have drifted during their absence.

Hades lulled his head back to the door, watching the flicker of the lamp upon the wall. The flame blew towards him, licking the glass with the tips of its flames. He pondered it for a moment; with the cross breeze, it was most likely that his cell was close to the end of a walkway, considering the bend in the lanterns flickering core. He doubted his Scions compatriots would leave him so close to a possible escape, so inference would say he’s actually, most likely, being kept in the latter-a basement to what would be their normal jailhouse.

Another uncomfortable hiss as he turned away, eyes now dancing across the floor. In the distance, he could feel himself counting drops of water, a leak, somewhere close to his cell. He calmed his mind, letting it relax, expand, focus upon the metronomic beats.

If he did choose to aid in the Scions cause, particularly the Warrior’s, how would he begin? Hydaelyn had been painfully obscure, in the methodology, at least. He’d begun to recall pieces of their exchange, though large portions still seemed to be missing-waning the longer he stayed awake. She’d stated he would provide strength, knowledge. He’d been open to this prospect; over the course of their journey on the First, Emet-Selch had divulged all of which he could, more or less at the expense of his own life.

She was a quick study, the hero, always questioning him, investing herself into his words-meaning; but never once did it seem like she believed he’d tricked her, lied. Her friends had, of course, particularly the one with the gunblade. Unlike that of her charge, she’d been curious, if he could atone her inquiries to an action. She wanted understanding, backdrop-he could sense her questions, hesitance; why was she the one, why she was the Champion? 

He felt a familiar guilt settle within him.

The deeds he bade, the actions that befitted him, centuries upon nations of bloodshed, murder, conquest. His heart seemed to weigh them, pitting them to the schemes of the First, of the Light. Hades could almost laugh, had he the strength. So blindly had that hero trusted him. Her curiosity, faith, always giving to those close to her-the thought of it twisted austerely in his mind. It never seemed to matter to her that he was the enemy, a killer-she wanted answers. 

He’d almost turned her to a Sin Eater, finished his work, killed them-he’d been _so close_. She’d known as their battle drew closer, even if she didn’t voice her concerns for her life, her being. Her Scions couldn’t even seem to bring themselves to tell her of the blight, of what they feared her becoming. The child tried, the Oracle, but he knew-without the full extent of her powers, there was little she could do for her friend. Another wave of guilt, deeper, older, rushed in along his ocean of loathing. Had he not done the same in their final days, in Amaurot?

Hades winced as his chest pulled at his stiches, his breath heavy and labored. He had not the time to sort his thoughts in the end, test, consider, but he’d assumed that her radiance was the reason he’d been so drawn to the hero and her group in the first place. It was possible she was a reflection of one of their sundered, similar in color due to the Mother’s inference, but not truly in being-no, never truly. He’d had moments in which he questioned his theories; in fact, Elidibus had danced around the subject when he’d woke him upon her conquest of Lahabrea and Igeyorhm. He’d never admit it outright, even had the Paragon actually cornered the Emissary into a confession, but the edges of her soul were similar enough-their selflessness, sacrifice-enough that it could...could have been an Amaurotine. The bile began to churn in his stomach, throat; it would have intervened with the Rejoining, with Zodiark’s plans, had he of stalled in his actions, deeds. Amaurotine soul or not, the hero needed to die.

He took a long breath, settling himself, releasing his jaw; he was being too optimistic, even now. If it was a shard, a flicker, then he would have known upon that day in the Crystarium, when he’d seen her flesh, aether, for the first time. His musings prior to their battle were correct. Hades knew this hero, this Warrior amongst ilk, was all but a vessel, a Seraph of the Mother’s will and ever waning strength. Her soul held familiarity due to his centuries being stained with the color of Light, the color of the heroes, nothing more. They were nothing.

Hades turned back to the bars, wincing as his head, his chest, pulled upon his wounds. Zodiark had yet to seek him, call to him, since his awakening. His powers, his magicks, they’d been swallowed, pinned within the very core of his being by _her_ stake of _repulsive_ Light. He knew he’d been a pawn, they all had been when carrying out their Father's ordinances, but had he truly been lost for so long? His eyes felt heavy, stiff; sleep would perhaps allow a new perspective into his next course of action. The longer he stayed awake, the more Hydaelyn’s prophetic statements were becoming harder to place, remember. 

A soft chuckle resounded from the entrance of his cell, “I’d almost of believed the Exarch to be joking, but I see I was mistaken.”

Hades watched as a ginger-haired miqo’te knelt to the bars to his hold. He was young, though the roots of his hair faded, greying into a bright white near his scalp. A lone, bright blue eye stared back at him betwixt the bangs covering his face, glittering with amusement. Pointed canines gleamed as he smiled, “I don’t believe we’ve really had the opportunity to chat much,” He began, “I am D’ve Yaint, student of Emilia.” 

The Ascian remembered, though faintly, the adventurer before him. The hero was close to this…D’ve, often traveling with him, writing to him-he'd questioned her, he, upon their relationships, history, a few times, but their responses were always too vague or short to gain understanding from. Upon a second glace, Hades realized that his aether admonished the same brightness as she-the blessing, though faint in comparison to his mentor. Interesting-had that always been there? “I,” The Paragon tilted his head as a greeting, “Am Emet-Selch, though I believe you seem to recall well enough.”

D’ve nodded, the braids by his neck jingling, “Indeed, you’re not one so easily forgotten,” he mused, “Not to ours, at least.”

“Obviously,” Hades gestured to the binds on his wrists with a manner of soured disdain.

The boy’s eyes followed, his expression stiffening. He sat, looking upon him in reticence, before sighing heavily, “Why…did they bind you this way?”

“I can only assume it’s because of who I am, child,” The Ascian’s voice was sharper than he’d intended, but he’d had enough of the Scions, their questioning. He was tired and palaver with another of their consort was a concept he vehemently resented, especially with one so _fond_ of the hero, _especially _as tired as he felt. His mind was too tired to form the questions he wanted to ask anyway, “As you said, you and yours remember my deeds, name. Kindness is a reserve I believe you feign for those _not_ of my ilk.” 

Silence fell between them, the miqo’te’s eyes glittering within that of the darkened hallway. It was unsettling, the luminescent sheen gleaming at him from within the shadows. He seemed to be thinking, despite the vacant stare he bore towards the Ascian’s hands. “I know Y’shtola can sense your aether.”

“And it seems you can as well,” Hades snapped.

“Not as well as the others, I’m afraid.” D’ve smiled faintly. The prospect of the Scions sensing his weakness, or vulnerability, made him angry, uncomfortable. “I’m not as traversed in that field, though text has often seemed to help me grasp the rudimentary concepts.”

“As interesting as our conversation has been,” He could feel his head beginning to stretch, muddle, “Your little show of empathy may grant you sway with some, but it will earn you little here. I’d like to go back to my silence, if you would.”

“Brooding, you mean.”

Hades felt his expression placate. “Yes, my _brooding_.”

“Well then,” D’ve sighed as he stood, straightening his now ruffled overcoat. He gestured flippantly with his hand, “Far be it for me to intrude on your precious ruminating.”

“Many thanks,” He grumbled, closing his eyes. His body was tired, heavy, the realms of sleep calling upon him now that his eyes had finally recoiled from the light. He’d be horribly sore on the morrow.

“You know,” He could hear the boy’s voice fading, echoing throughout the chamber, “They may be warry of you, but…I’m glad she gave you a second chance.”

.

Emilia could feel her chest heaving, burning.

“O-Oh,” A panicked voice, soft. Weight suddenly shifted from her side, “U-Urianger, Y’shtola, she’s waking up!”

A flurry of sounds suddenly encompassed her; monitor, blaring soft pulses and something akin to a warning, a scuffle of feet, cloth, shoes upon stone. Her skin was prickling, hot beneath the blankets on her body. As she made to move, the vertigo responded, spinning the blackness of her mind into violent, revolving circles. She breathed, her pulse throbbing in her temples.

“Emilia, pray, can you hear us?”

The Warrior felt her mouth open, the dry seal of her lips pulling apart with a painful, bleeding sting. She sucked in a breath, nausea now working its way to the surface, “She needs water, fetch her something to drink, Ryne, Urianger hand me something to dampen her lips.”

After a moment of shuffling, Emilia could feel cold droplets falling upon her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes; never had she felt something so wonderfully cool, refreshing. She could feel her hands shaking, trying to grasp for more, but the muscles failed to respond. “Without haste, my friend, let us aid you.” Urianger.

“I found her a cup,” Ah, Ryne. “The mages are coming to check on her as well. Should I send for the Exarch?”

“Yes, and D’ve as well.” Y’shtola.

Another shower of droplets descended upon her mouth, the chalkiness on her tongue dissipating with a hard swallow. “A---ah,” Emilia winced as her voice wheezed, the sound broken and pitched within the silence.

As she made to breathe, a cool cloth was suddenly placed upon her face, equally as refreshing as the water. She wheezed, again, gentle hands rubbing circles over her skin, massaging her eyes and corners of her lips. The hero opened her mouth, making to speak to her companions, understand their situation, but a finger clamped over her, bidding it shut, “Slowly,” The miqo’te instructed, “The Light will probably hurt your eyes if you try to open them right now. Let the cloth help you to adjust.”

Emilia did as she was instructed, slowly and painfully.  
She began working her eye lids, rolling her eyes beneath to allow them to, just as Y’shtola said, adjust. After a few moments, the pair managed to pry open, but she was underwhelmed by the result. Her vision was painfully unfocused, despite the cloth, and it hurt her head to try to squint it away. The mage had been correct, even with the barrier on her eyes the overhead lanterns hurt. “Good,” The woman beside her sighed, “It may just take you a little time, but be patient.”

Another pair of silhouettes emerged at the corner of her vision, “She’s awake?” 

Y’shtola nodded, “Yes, though we’re not sure if she can speak just yet.”

A warmth suddenly spread on her palm, moving from her wrists and spreading over her fingers. It was familiar, but uncomfortable. She remembered the first time she’d feigned to use her White magicks upon this Star; it was wrenching, the oversaturation of the elements, the souls she could hear, feel, lost from the Lifestream. Emilia couldn’t handle the sorrow; thus her Dark Knight became her familiar upon the First, “It seems like her pulse is still erratic,” A male voice stated, “But no more spikes, it seems. Has she been awake long?”

Urianger stepped alongside Y’shtola, “Naught ‘ere long, mayhap a few notes, at best.”

“Hm,” The hero felt relief as the warmth dissipated, “Can you see, Warrior of Light?”

The honorific of his address caught her off-guard. She breathed, “Y…y-yes.” The weakness of her voice made her flinch, but she could see him nod in approval. 

“Is your vision clear? No spots, shapes?”

“I-I…it’s a l-little…b-blurry,” Emilia swallowed painfully, “N…n-no s-shapes.”

“Alright. From what I can see, she is more than likely still disoriented from her aether usage,” The scratching of lead on parchment, “It will take us a few moments to draw up a sedative, but do try to keep her awake in the meantime. We need to gauge the restoration speed of her storages so far.”

“Alright,” Y’shtola stated, “Thank you for your help.”

The man nodded again, the silhouettes fading from Emilia’s view. “W-w…here…are w-we?”

The miqo’te looked up to the lanterns and waved her hands. The group watched as the lights dimmed, a soft glow now illuminating the room as opposed to the blinding orange from prior. “We are back in the Crystarium,” The cloth began to fall away from her eyes. 

She squinted at the change, allowing herself time to adjust her vision. They were sitting in the infirmary ward, she inferred, one which the warrior had frequented often when Thancred had fallen ill. Linen curtains adorned the walls, rudimentary monitors bolted to wooden poles between each pair. She could see tubes, as well as a few patches, attached across her arms and chest-the sudden awareness of them made her exceedingly uncomfortable. 

Urianger and the miqo’te watched as she shifted, each moving to assist her as she began to gain focus of her surroundings. They smiled warmly, worried, though relieved expressions began to spread as she settled. “Full glad am I to know you are returned to us,” Urianger breathed a slow sigh, “How dost thee feel?”

Before Emilia could respond, a suddenly cry of joy resounded from her right. She made to turn her gaze, but her body fought back, a rippling wave of pain coursing through her neck and shoulders. Y’shtola reached out to her and placed a steadying hand beneath the crown of her head, resting her back against the bed with calculated, gentle slowness. “Gradually, my friend.”

“Emilia!” D’ve, Ryne, and the Exarch came bounding through the threshold. The trio seemed out of breath, particularly the Oracle, but as they wrapped around her bed, she could see joyous expressions taking to their faces. 

After a short exchange with their fellow Scions, a few questions in regard to the others, her student broke the pressing silence, “Ryne sent word for us when you woke, how are you feeling? Did the mages say anything?”

The hero winced at the loudness of his voice. She hadn’t been prepared for so much activity, “I-I’m…w-well enough, D’ve. R-rest e…easy.”

The ginger-haired miqo’te beamed, resting his hands on her outstretched arm. His contact was cool, refreshing and supporting, “I was extremely worried, you…you were in bad shape after the Tempest. We didn’t think, well, I-” 

“D’ve speaks for _all of us_, Emilia,” G’raha had tears building in his eyes, “Fully relieved are we to know you are with us…fit to make a strong recovery, might I add.

As she met his gaze, Emilia felt something tug at her mind, pulling upon her memories.

She was standing upon a glowing crystal floor. 

The Exarch was wounded, leaning on his staff, breathing as though the next was fit to be his last. He was bloody, bruised over his face and neck, shaking.  
  
A shadow loomed between she and the miqo’te, red and purple aether cascading from the being in writhing, spitting strength. She could feel her brow furrow as he spoke, the language muddled by chimes, cracking glass. “Emilia,” The landscape was foggy, fading to grey, black. A voice was pleading, sobbing as they cried out at something, someone.

A bright flash of light, pain, screaming. “Is she okay?”

_“Remember…”_

“Fetcheth thine mages, Exarch, she requierith the sedative.” Urianger’s voice was hard, alarmed. A scuffle, a clench of her arm, a hand. “With haste.”

“_Remember us…”_

“I-It’s the Echo,” Ryne whispered, she sounded sad, “She’s still stuck between, let me-”

“Emilia, you need to breathe, focus,” Y’shtola was by her head, coaxing circles around her face, her forehead. The touch made her shiver-everything was beginning to flare, burn. Her chest weighed heavy, stinging, as if a hole was being torn through her middle. D’ve’s hands left her, “Stay calm.”

“W-w…w-what….” Her voice cracked as she began to blink, rapidly. The room suddenly blared back to life; everything was blurry, unfocused, loud. White shades loomed around the vestige of her sight, hazing the silhouettes of her comrades, of the bodies now swarming over her, poking, stabbing. “W-w…h-happen…ed…Tempest…?”

Long, orange hair emerged beside her, grazing against her shoulder, arm, “Fight it, Emilia,” Light was flowing from the girl’s fingers, but the hero couldn’t see her face, “She needs you to break through the barriers, you have to remember. Fight it.”

The hero felt the pain in her torso intensify, searing as if molten pumice had been poured over her body. Chimes, bright expanses of colors, shifting, fading. Choirs of voices, singing, cadences and promises whispered over and over-the blessing, a promise.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak, but a flare of agony, hot and hollow, rent in her stomach. Emilia could hear her voice erupt from her throat, a cry-she’d been run through, a blade.

Her cleaver.

_“Remember…”_

Her eyes were suddenly brought to a corridor. She blinked, gaping upon the smoothed stone lining tall, curved walls. They extended with foreboding height, disappearing unto a vaulted ceiling, darkness, along each side of her body. A steep stairway of likewise material flowed beneath her, behind her, blackening as she looked back behind her shoulder. She was confused.

With caution, she turned back, looking to the path now stretching in an arch before her. Soft lantern light glowed in sconces along chiseled, stone panels, the nearest resting at the landing of the steps. Its gentle warmth extended in a shallow line, curving down the provided, bowing, pathway. With careful measure, the hero took a step, the pain in her breast suddenly pulling, aching.

“Hold her down,” Shuffling. Strong hands clamped down on her face, shoulders. Hands clenched, restraining her ankles, her forehead, “Someone, help me open her mouth!”

Soft raps of her boots echoed as she descended, her arms now moving to cradle her ribs, chest. The pain lessened, if only a little, at the sentiment. “If you’ve come back, boy, I’m in no mood for conversation.” 

A baritone. Cynical, cool. 

Something pulled upon that same thread in her mind, the cries, pleas returning.

Fingers burrowed into her dimples, squeezing down against her jaw and teeth. She could feel herself trying to turn, fight them, but they burrowed deeper, nails now scratching into her skin. “Stop it, Emilia, you need to drink it!” Cold liquid, bitter and disgusting, suddenly spilled over her mouth, choking her as she feigned to breathe, fight. Another hand gripped on her nose, “Swallow!”

Emilia stepped onto the foyer, her eyes resting upon a chamber that’d been carved into the left of the wall now closest to her body. She could feel the panic jittering over her skin, quickening her pulse. With a manner of caution, she moved past the jutting boulder towards, what looked to be, an entrance into a cell. Something was calling to her from in here-the chorus, the colors, bright and warm. 

Tall, steel bars extended into the bodies of each stone, a pair now standing to each side of her body. Curious, she lifted a hand but quickly recoiled, fingers burning from the strong, aetheric binds coursing through the brackets. It was almost undetectable, “What did I _just_ say?”

Emilia squinted as she peered into the dark, trying to distinguish the identity of her guest. She could discern a silhouette, but before she could make any further observation, a dark, familiar chuckle began to echo throughout the chamber. She took a step back, the pain suddenly blinding her. A pair of bright, golden eyes stared back from within the darkness, glowing, “My, what a surprise, _hero_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have it my friends. 
> 
> If you're read this far, and wish for a little summary, I hope to divulge a little with you about what this chapter covered, and alluded to, from the previous work and the chapters prior. 
> 
> First, I'm sorry if you feel I'm punished Emilia or Hades a little too much in these first two chapters, I'm a little worried about these scenes coming across that way, but...In my opinion, after the MSQ ended and these two experienced what they have, I'd imagine what would follow to be not only painful but a little bit scary. Emilia is near dying from aether use, Hades was run through with a cleaver, I mean...I feel it only fair to portray these things to make a setting for what will come as we continue. 
> 
> Second, D've is a character that is a friend of mines, a male Miqo’te summoner, who will be another Scion/WOL that will be joining in on our journey. Since, in game, the WOL is...more than one person, if that makes sense, I wanted to have that setting here as well. The difference here will be D've has the blessing, as the Scions do in turn, but everything that fell upon the "main" WOL in the SHB storyline will have happened to 'only' Emilia. As in...she was the one absorbing the Lightwardens. I hope that makes sense?
> 
> Whew...I wanted to sum up a few of those thoughts before we continued. >__>"  
As always, if something seems a little off or maybe misunderstood, feel free to let me know so I can revise it as we move along with more chapters! 
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading and supporting this work! <3


	4. Hollow

It’d been a week, if D’ve remembered well enough. 

He gazed up from his text, contemplating his readings in silence. He’d taken care to begin researching Hydaelyn, any and every account he could find, written or otherwise. Since the Ascian's untimely return, and Emilia’s descent into aether sickness, he felt it was the best he could do: research. Some tomes told of her precious warriors, Champions much like his mentor, but as he continued, he noted he was mostly interested in script which described history of Hydaelyn’s Primal heritage, her summoning. These stories, much to his disappointment, were incredibly narrow and in most cases, destroyed or lost. The librarian in the Crystarium had always been accommodating, and for that he was grateful, but frustration still held.

D’ve had tried seeking other sources, when the written documents began to lessen, but Emet-Selch had been moved, thus complicating his search. Now under supervision of the Exarch within that of the Crystal Tower, visits with questions or possible leads were nearly impossible to consider. He was being kept in more humane circumstances, upon his behest and admittedly relief, but without consent from the Scions he found it difficult to meet with him-if the Ascian was even willing to have an audience, that was. 

In all honesty, the Summoner did understand his charges apprehension, but their enemy, as Y’shtola and Ryne noted, had returned…different. His aether had distorted, compressed, and though it still held the same color, affinity, D’ve found that it appeared slower. In the cell, at least, it appeared more or less blocked to his use; he was no longer a threat, not to them, at any rate.

With a sigh, he looked over to his friend, watching as she slept. Emilia laid on her back, breathing peacefully, though the expression on her face seemed somewhat strained. Tubes of liquids and monitors stuck from various visages of her body, pumping and blinking slowly within the silence of the room. As he observed, D’ve could notice some small improvement in her pallor; she was slower than normal in her recovery, but the swelling that’d adorned her body had begun to fade, at least. The bruises, particularly those appointed upon her last moments awake, also appeared to have lessened in their presence.

The memory made him want to flinch. He never thought he’d have to bear down upon his mentor like that, restrain her; sure, he’d done it a time or two when she’d been drunk, or in a particularly…self-harming mood, but never as he had in that moment. She was so desperate, angry, pleading out to someone, something, and the display of it unsettled him. He’d noticed that she, too, seemed as if she had something blocking her aether, slowing it, but larger than the Ascian's, deeper, at its core. It’d become barely discernable in her current state, but he supposed this sedation was good for her in that respect. The induced sleep, as the medical teams had told him, would ensure she could recover without harming herself, or anyone else. Her body needed time to adjust and recalibrate to not only her depleted aether stores, but the new addition within her soul, Ardbert.

He remembered the way Emilia had screamed when Ryne touched her, trying to quell the pain. Her gaze had been filled with tears, bearing into his own with desperation and eyes whose color stared back as a pale, glowing blue. They didn’t seem natural. He was anxious to see if the gold of her right eye had actually changed, to see if it now matched that of her left, the blue, as he had witnessed during her thrall; perhaps it was the aether?

“You should rest too, D’ve…” The miqo’te turned back to the doorway, smiling gently as the tired visages of Thancred and Ryne made their way inside. Both rested their bags by the curtain and with a small smile, the Oracle jogged over to him, “Have you slept?”

“I have, little one,” D’ve patted his hand atop her hair, ruffling it gently. In truth, no. He’d been without sleep for at least a day-but she had other concerns, least of which needed to be one of her guardians. The girl gleamed, “Worry not for my health, tell me instead of your trip?”

Thancred sighed as he took a stool near the wall, crossing his arms. In that moment, he looked every bit his age; worn, tired, and if not a little disappointed. “’Twas much too long with too little of a benefit, damnable Fae.” 

“It was beneficial,” The Oracle frowned defensively, looking over her shoulder to him, “The locals were friendly.” 

“I will never feign as to why you and Urianger favor them,” He looked at D’ve, “You as well.”

“They are incredibly intelligent and have a lot to offer us from their long lives,” The miqo’te answered, “If you’re willing to play along, that is. Which I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Plus,” Ryne scowled, “You taught me how to use Shade Shift, remember? _That’s_ beneficial.”

D’ve shot a glare to the Gunblade wielder, his eyes cool and condescending in their strength. The Hyur matched him. The Oracle had been a very controversial topic between the two; the longer they stayed together, the more vehemently the miqo’te disagreed with Thancred’s parenting methods. Never one for encouragement, this one. “I’d be more than happy for you to show me sometime then, Ryne,” The child looked back to him happily, “How long did it take you to learn?”

She furrowed her brow, bringing her finger to her lips in thought. “We started…about a week or so ago, but today was the first I was able to hold the shade’s form. I was using too little aether before, Thancred said.” 

“A quick study then,” D’ve smiled and looked back to the man in question, “Deserving of praise, is it not, _Thancred?” _

His brown eyes rolled, a slight blush coloring to his cheeks. He looked away to the wall as he answered. Boyish now, “She did well, but that was never my concern...”

“…And that’s about as much of a compliment as you’ll wrench from him,” The miqo’te grinned, now standing. Ryne chuckled.

With a lazy stretch and a few cracking bones, D’ve yawned and extended his arms, releasing his breath in a long, drawn sigh. He swung around his satchel as he pushed aside the chair, gathering his tomes and scripts from the nearby table. The Oracle moved to help him, looking down at a few of the titles as she passed them along, “Has…she happened to have said anything, since we’ve been gone?” 

The pair of men looked to her, then to their comrade. “Well, it’s best she rest as long as she can,” Thancred stated, “You said it yourself, her soul is fractured. Sleep is like to do her some good, in that regard.” 

“He’s right,” The miqo’te patted her shoulder, “She’s yet to say anything, but I promise that if she does, I’ll be the first to let you know, alright?”

Something in the girl’s eyes stuck with him, unsettling his own façade of disconcern. She was expecting a reply, the disappointment was clearly painted upon her face, but what, exactly? “O-Okay...” 

“Well, I’m going to head back to return these,” D’ve gestured to his bag as he laced it over his shoulders. “They’ll send the wards after me if these don’t make it back before nightfall. Afterwards, I’ll come back and sit with you, alright?”

Ryne’s smile returned as he made for the door, “Alright.”

“I’ll walk you out. Stay here, Ryne,” Thancred removed himself from his stool, beckoning for the miqo’te to follow, “Call for me should anything happen.”

She nodded enthusiastically.

As D’ve made it through the doorway, the Hyur sidestepped and grabbed ahold of his wrist. He made to gasp, but the elder jerked him forward, pulling him towards the bustling courtyard of the Crystarium. “W-Wha...Shouldn’t you stay with her?” The miqo’te stumbled after him, tripping repeatedly over his boots and robes, “W-What in the_ twelve_ do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to talk to you,” Thancred snapped, gaining speed. “And you wouldn’t listen otherwise.”

The pair wove between the crowds in silence, the Hyur pulling the ginger-haired miqo’te along and down narrow corridors between both the market board plaza and the vendors surrounding. D’ve remembered these paths, Emilia had often hidden here on some of her more difficult days, to collect her thoughts, she’d explained to him. He’d taken to doing the same, but never with a guest.

The miqo’te tripped down the walkway after him, his own nerves twisting as he came to realize that they were now alone, isolated. “Oh, will you _stop it?”_ He grumbled, almost falling into the wall.

Thancred paused and looked to either side of him. When he was satisfied with the silence upon each end of their passage, he yanked his partner to his side. D’ve fumbled, falling against the billboard’s supporting planks with an angry, misbegotten scowl. “I needed to talk to you, and you continue refusing me; how else am I to do it?”

“You could have _asked,” _D’ve’s sharpened canines gleamed as he hissed, rubbing at his arm. “Rather than pull me around the town like a kite.”

The white-haired man breathed a deep sigh. Gently, he leaned into the shorter man, bringing his hands to rest against the supporting beams, each on either side of D’ve’s head. “I know you’re angry with me.”

“I am,” Thancred’s lips pressed into a line at his honesty, “You need to encourage her, how many times must I tell you?”

When he didn’t reply he continued, “She’ll resent you, you know, not outright but…over time, she’ll begin to understand, if she hasn’t already. Have you forgotten your promise to Minfilia already?” D’ve’s anger was beginning to bubble, “You need to admit it to yourself; she’s a child, she’s different, she needs the verbal gratification just as much as your _silent brooding_.”

Thancred leaned forward and pressed his lips to the forehead of the summoner, sighing, slumping defeatedly. They stood like that; the miqo’te fuming but unmoving in his posture, the gunblade wielder leaning upon him with a soft kiss pressed to his face. “I’m…sorry.” He mumbled.

D’ve sighed in turn, poking a finger into the Hyur’s chest, “Just do better, I don’t want the apologies.”

“I know,” He lowered his face down level with the miqo’te’s, looking into his eyes. Bright blue and a shocking white stared back at him, surprised but unwaveringly loving. It made his chest hurt, “But I still feel the need to say it. I’m sorry.”

The shorter rolled his eyes, “Yes…_I know_.”

Thancred smiled weakly and leaned further, pressing his lips against the younger man’s nose. D’ve shrunk back with a heated blush, but the wall prevented him from moving away fully. He winced as the Hyur chuckled, advancing his mouth over his skin, returning to trail kisses down his eyes, cheeks. The brushing of his lips against his skin, his scars, had D’ve shivering. “Would this method of apology suit the situation more?” His voice rung with pleasant amusement.

“I-I’ll consider it.”

.

_Elidibus gazed out upon the star, his clawed hands raking annoyedly over the shade, form, of his mask. He could sense his brother, his friend, fading; powers spent upon his transformation, his act. He’d warned him, but now Hades’ bright, beaming soul was dissipating unto the rift, the void calling and welcoming him as it had the others, his brethren. “I see Oblivion has claimed him.” A singe of regret colored his expression, “**Emet-Selch**-gone. **Lahabrea**-gone.” He chuckled, “I alone remain…the last of the unbroken.”_

_He glared back down unto the First. The Emissary could find her easily enough, the warrior’s soul. It shone from within Norvrandt, gleaming, disgusting. The longer he observed, the easier he could sense a disturbance in its brilliance, but even to an untrained eye there was no doubt it ‘twas brighter, another step towards its completion. The Mother was interfering with his assessment of her, no doubt, but the luminosity remained; eight of fourteen. “Once more I am moved to reevaluate the potential of these tattered souls. Never had I imagined she would grow so powerful, just from the First.”_

_With a flick of his wrist, the star faded, shifting back to the shade of the Source, the hero’s home. “Ah, Zenos,” He witnessed him standing upon the throne room of Garlemald, sword drawn. “Never did I dream you could overpower me so completely, possessed as I was of your body, it’s uncanny strength.” _

_Elidibus let his hands fall to his sides, his gaze looking up into the expanse of space, the stars. “I’m curious of your choice now that I have shared with you the truth of this world…its reflections,” He sighed, “The skies weep, who can predict how events will unfold?”_

_Zenos turned, glaring upon the figure of Gaius now entering upon the throne. _

_“Ah, **Emissary**…what a poor jest that title has become.” He scoffed and shook his head, “The flow of history has become muddled. Your interference, these insufferable shards. The currents are running wild beyond my capacity to direct them.”_

_Hatred, strong and deep, bubbled from within his breast. How could he have been so careless, to allow the Architect to dwell upon that shard, to be so reckless in his own rite. ‘Twas too soon, Hades had much left to accomplish, redeem. “You have wrested the advantage, Hydaelyn.” He whispered, “The thieving hands of your disciples tighten their grip on our star. In turn, the origins of the world yet remain hidden and its inhabitants-ignorant of their broken existence, just as You and Your creators desired.”_

_A flash of memory came to him. _

_The Fourteenth, the illusion of her calm, elegant façade unravelling before them, the Convocation. Her mask shattered upon the floor, her soul blazing with vehement rage, at him, at Hades, her friends. _

_“They celebrate the gift of imperfect life – uncaring, unknowing as we weaken and fade.” Elidibus leaned down, grazing his claws across the ground, as if he was speaking to her shade. He’d said much of the same, upon the second calling of their god, their Father, “Make not the mistake to imagine yourself rid of us, Mother. Though your new Champion has indeed proven the most egregious obstacle to our ascendance, a barbed thorn in my side, she may yet be removed and cast into the abyss.”_

_He chuckled as he stretched, tall, turning towards the visage of the void. “Oh yes, it can be done.” Ash fell from his fingers, floating within the space as a gentle trail trickled behind him. “I will keep these “heroes” mired in the First, indulge their curiosity, their folly. In turn, victory will be ours at last.”  
_

_A haunting laugh escaped from him, echoing into the void, “Warriors of Darkness now, are they? Then their fate has been decided. They shall meet the same end as those who came before, death at the hands of the Warriors of Light.”_

_._

Hades concentrated upon his soul, his core.

He’d regained a margin of his strength, he supposed, if anything from the consistent watchfulness of the visiting mages. The Scions, well, the miqo’te child had insisted upon his comrades that the Ascian be moved from what, he could only guess, was his witness upon their last interaction. The latter had seemed quite disturbed by that Summoner’s statements; inhumane offerings to enemies, no matter their deeds-it seemed to be the angle which struck a chord in them. It was painfully amusing to observe the hostility between the Hyur and Exarch after his lecture, but Hades was grateful, in some regard. Boredom plagued upon his every breath, since his body was free to move around his new habitation, but it was favorable to being bound to a wall-much more so. Bound, that is, with the Exarch’s insufferable aether surging against his skin.

The Architect tried once more, delving deeper to his core. The links that’d shackled him upon his previous observance of his aether sat in waiting, glaring back at him with an atrocious glow. He’d been at it for hours now, lost upon his own theoretical musings, trials. Hydaelyn’s light blinked as he came closer, blaring within the void that’d been, is, him. It was blinding, but solid; woven through the walls of his ancient creation magicks, a stake of elongated chain baring over every visible inch.

Hades focused upon it.

The light rebuked at first, causing him to pause, hissing in pain, but as he bore further he could sense its changes, the Mother’s gravity. From his previous journey’s, he could ascertain the following; her blessing seemed to be acting to fill the shard which he’d lost upon the Warrior of Light’s piercing of his chest. Hydaelyn had been kind enough to leave him the memories of that encounter, her explanation, but the bond that now flowed within him felt stronger, rigid. It was unsettling, but the more he’d attempted to break it, bend it, the more she seemed to evoke of his memories, his past.

The concept infuriated him to no end, that her protection to his curiosity was with painful flashes of his home, of the Convocation or Amaurot; it was within this light, however, that he found that he could see hairline fragmentations. They were perhaps caused due to the age of himself, if he had his own guess, lifetimes upon lifetimes of knowledge to keep contained, bottled for her own rebuke. Nevertheless, the lesions were minuscule, soft bells compared to the blinding quality she tried to offer him in pretense. He had an idea in mind, having witnessed similar in the various souls of his own brethren, those coming into the rank of the seated often had the same after first having been tempered by the Father.

Every chain-link withheld an empty space, as veins withheld of blood, or air between a bottle of fine wine and condensed cork. His theories had yet to take into account this new presentation of data, but he was beginning to see patterns, approaches to which he could possibly wield. It would be difficult, but if he could find a way to press upon those bindings, the spaces, and test its limitations, then there could be a way to infuse those gaps with his own voidal essence. His magicks could consume, creating as the Light would devour against his darkened affinity, and he could, once more, wield. Hades mused, however, that with that shackle upon his powers, it could probably never attain its previous strength, not without the Father’s eventual interference.

This newest solution to his withheld state of being had been in his mind, ruminating as he continued to pace over the glowing floor of his room. More thought couldn’t hurt, he supposed, before actually moving forward; not to mention that it would help if he could perhaps read a medical journal upon human Aethereal networks. If he remembered correctly, it’d been near a century since he’d delved into that science and a refresher could never hurt. His meditation would be a difficult concept to apply, considering how small the spaces, fragments were; but with patience and guidance, it should allow his aether to begin to flow with speed, inhibition. Hades found himself smirking as he began to remove himself from his core, his soul.

Each attempt hadn’t been as taxing as they’d been within his previous quarters, when his wound had been raw and torn, but even still he would have difficulty adjusting once he’d managed to tear himself away. He wondered, vaguely, if the Scions would take notice of those changes, particularly with how the small the adjustments would be.

Hades closed his eyes and braced himself for the vertigo that would come upon his reawakening.

_._

_Bright, florescent sprites flittered before her eyes.  
_

_Their warmth was intoxicating, the spinning of their dance a gentle, entwinning couplet against the backdrop of her dark, script covered wall. Luminescent blues, pinks, and golds sparkled over their bodies, the circular balls of souls, dripping in the air and fading to nothing as they dropped past her waist. _

_She moved to touch them, compelled by their beauty, but they quickly dispersed, trails of light following as they moved. With a frown, Emilia made to lower her hand, but they returned once more, brighter. Groups wiggled in hyperactive, twisting spirals, landing and leaping against the tops of her skin with soft luminosity. She giggled at the tingling touch they left against her fingers, palm. “So pretty.”_

_The sprites continued to dance over her arm, flittering upon the sleeves of her long, black robe. She felt her eyes water as she watched their movements, shunned by how innocently happy they seemed to feel, this close to her. _

** _Hear, feel, think._ **

Each eye seemed to move on their own accord, first the left to open, then, slower, her right. She blinked; the action hazy and deliberate. Everything was dark; the sprites had dissipated, waning into the blinking of monitors and the soft sheen of long, billowing curtains.

Emilia blinked again, focusing on the rooms details as the fog began to clear. She was still bedridden, as her body began to so kindly remind her. With an edge of curiosity, she looked down, surprised to see new linens adorning her chest, legs. If she’d remembered correctly, the last she’d worn were stained, if not even a little bloody. This new set was alarmingly white, almost sheer, but where the cloth began and her skin should emerge, gauze protruded instead. She flinched; if each covered a wound, then that would explain why she felt so unbelievably sore.

As her gaze floundered over the various props about the room, the hero could feel herself sigh. She’d been hooked to more tubes, wires-each monitoring, recording, her every function, breath; she’d always hated this methodology to White Magicks, so unnecessarily tedious.

Emilia blinked hard, fighting the headache she could feel building in her temples. She needed to stay calm, observe, gain knowledge of the situation. She could only guess at how long she’d been asleep, let alone everything that’d happened in her absence. Y’shtola had told her she was in the Crystarium, right?

With a clench of teeth, the hero tried to move her arms. When neither responded, she tried again, surprised to feel that they were unnaturally heavy, weighed upon. Emilia rolled her head to her right, a small smile coming to her lips as she found the culprit; the Oracle. Ryne was sitting in a stool at her side, her body arched heavily upon the edge of her mattress and blankets. Her long, bright red hair laid nuzzled, much like her face, upon the crook in hero’s arm, “R-r…yne...” She croaked, wiggling her fingers, “R-R…yne.”

The child twitched slightly, “E-Emi, are you ‘ake?”

Had the hero been in a better state, she could have gleamed at how innocent she looked, “Y…es.”

Ryne began to blink, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands, “How-” A yawn, “H-how long have you been up?" 

“I…think that’s a b-better…quest…ion for y-you.” She felt her smile turn to a crooked smirk, “H-How…long have y…you been here?”

“Not too long,” Another yawn as she rose from the hero’s arm, stretching. She looked around the room for a moment then back to her, “Thancred and D’ve said they’d be back after they returned some books to the library, so I guess just a bell or so. I…I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Emilia wanted to roll her eyes. Seems like those two decided to finally make-up, but they had a lecture coming for leaving this child here. Thancred in particular, it was probably his fault. “I…c-could…I trouble you for…some w-water?”

The girl’s eyes suddenly widened, fully awake. She leapt from her chair and darted down to the foot of her bed, “O-Of course! One second!”

After a moment of loud rummaging, the Oracle emerged once more from the curtain, a clay cup cradled in her hands. “S-shall I help you?”

Emilia smiled, “I…m-may need h-help sitting up.”

Ryne nodded and came to her side, resting the water upon the table behind her. Gently, she placed her hand beneath the hero’s head, the other taking hold of her bandaged fingers. Emilia clenched her teeth and sucked in a breath, pushing with her elbows to propel herself from the sheets. She was shaky, her muscles barely able to help, even with Ryne’s assistance, but after a spell they did finally manage to get the miqo’te into a semblance of a sitting position. As the Oracle reached for the glass, she pressed the hero’s back against the pillows previously adorned by her head. “I’m sure that feels better,” She smiled, bringing the cup to Emilia’s lips, “You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

The miqo’te hummed as the girl tipped the glass up to her mouth. Refreshingly cool water greeted her parched mouth, instantly relieving the clenching, ashen taste that’d taken to her tongue. Ryne chuckled as she continued to tip the cup further. Emilia’s body was aching, relenting against the change in her position, but the rest of her wished her to stretch, release blood flow to her arms, legs. Perhaps later.

The liquid, though water, burned her throat to swallow but Emilia insisted she take the whole of it-she couldn’t remember the last time she’d drank. “Do you need anything else?” Ryne placed the, now empty, cup back to the table. 

“C-can you tell me what’s been going on while I’ve been asleep?” The hero’s voice was still weak, but she was relieved that she could now reply without pausing. The cracking wheezes were beginning to annoy her, though she supposed, deserved for the state she was in. She wiped the moisture from her mouth onto the collar of her top.

Ryne’s face suddenly fell, her eyes averting down to her fingers. “I…I don’t know if I’m the best person to tell you.” She paused, weaving her fingers over each other in nervous tumbles, “I’ve been gone with Thancred for the past few days, w-we just got back this afternoon.” 

Emilia shook her head, relenting to hide her disappointment. She was also a child, she doubted, had anything of happened during her sleep, the other Scions would have allowed her to witness. “It’s alright, I was just curious.”

“I-I mean…W-we’ve mostly been taking turns watching over you,” She replied quickly, “After they sedated you, we all thought it best to start making preparations for when you were better. We-”

A flash.

Hands grasped at her limbs, pulling open her jaw. Fingers twisted as she fought, tearing, bruising her skin.

Gold eyes.  
Someone was talking to her. She was in a basement, corridor, rocks and soft lantern light lining the walls.  
_  
“My, what a surprise, hero.”_

“H…how long did you say I was unconscious?” Emilia whispered. Her hands were shaking, head pounding with dizzy confusion. Every muscle in her chest felt like it’d been shredded, as if a hole had been ripped through her ribs. 

Ryne’s brow furrowed as she gazed upon her friend, “I…I think about a week or so?”

The miqo’te looked up to the girl, “I need you to be honest with me, Ryne.”

.

** _‘Hear, feel, think.’_ **

He tripped, tumbling upon the ground with a loud crash. Hades clenched his teeth as he dropped forward, bracing his fall with his outstretched hands and bent knees. They met, hard, and by the gauge of the pain, almost ripping free the stiches from his torso. His vision was beginning to vignette around the edges, white, cracking glass splintering the picture. A hiss of pain escaped from his lips as chimes hummed to life in his head.

‘**_Son of mine, child of Zodiark, thou shall answer upon the call.’ _**Hydaelyn’s warm voice greeted him.  


Rage seethed into his chest, hot and disgusting in its anger. With a snarl, Hades slammed his fist into the crystalline floor, uncaring of the pain that would follow. “_Leave me.”_

The musical concordance in his mind began to swell, fit to breaking his skull with the intensity of its color, ring. His eyes burned, ‘**_Mine Champion’s hour has come. Your redemption bids you unto her side-’_**

  
“I’m bid to do nothing,” He snapped, glaring at the floor beneath him. An intense wave of nausea was beginning to surface in his throat, gooseflesh rippling over his skin.

_‘**I have preserved each of your shards, as I have in turn done with her own.’ **_He could almost see the glow of her crystal, looking upon him as it had from within the void. She’d known his intentions,**_ ‘The seal hath provided you with time to deliberate your course, child, and mine with interval to slow her blight.’_**  
  


Hades clenched his fists, blood had begun to flow from his now rapidly swelling hand, “I never said I would assist you or your _champion._”

His mind suddenly drifted back to that evening, when her visage had come to him from within his cell. The hero had been a faint glow in the darkness, a trick of the lantern had he not known any better, but as she had approached, he could see the turmoil Hydaelyn spoke of. **_‘Thee hath borne witness to her aethereal projection, thus surely you have witnessed-’_**

**_   
_**A wide, horrendous hole, much in the shape of his own wound, hung in the middle of her torso. The edges, like his, were lined with glaring, fluorescent aether, purple where his had been blue. Chain and stakes, crystalline and heavy, wove in and out from her lesion, tethering and extending in a long, heavy chain out and over into that of his own breast. From her core, large cracks spread from those edges; splinters, twisted memories, networks, Light, tangled against her being as if they were trying to hold her together.

A loud crash rang from outside of his room, a combined shouting of voices resounding in chorus with its jar to his ears. Guards were being called, familiar shouting, names, being exchanged in a loud, heated discussion. Hades clenched his teeth and began to rise from the floor. Whatever was going on, it’d at least paused the humming in his mind.  
  


“E-Emilia, stop this right now!”  
  


That voice belonged to the Exarch.

  
“Someone, fetch the mages-immediately!”  
  


The blind woman.  
  


Another crash, angrier than the last.  
  


The Ascian managed to get to his knees, his breath coming heavy at the labors of his movement. In his previous state, Hades had held the ability to sense aether, it’s colors. It’d been a pride of his people, a gift given to a rare few in Amaurot, but upon his awakening, he was surprised to find it actually held. He’d tested its strength a few times, a gaze upon the occasional guard or unknowing, patrolling Scion, but this new intrusion was unlike any he’d seen yet. A large swell of energy was moving down the walkways to his chamber, a faint blue, with a hue of silver, white anchoring beneath it. The Oracle?

A strangled cry rang out, “S-show me to him, now!”

His eyes darted to the large, circular door at his horizon. He’d been placed in a room without windows, unfortunately, but he could recognize the quality to her voice. A thin, glowing chain began to extend from his breast, running across the ground to the door directly across from his figure.

Another chorus of arguments, shuffling.

“By the Twelve, if any of you attempt to sedate me, or her, I’ll bring the weight of everything I have upon you.” The Summoner.

Before he had chance to stand, the door gave way, parting into the wall as it circulated, rising above the archways entrance. Blazing blue eyes met him immediately, as flames would upon their hottest, brightest temperature, stilling him back to the ground.

He watched as Emilia limped into the room, the small figure of the Oracle huddled beneath her right, and the familiar gingered miqo’te to her left. Both held their arms protectively about her waist, her own hands gripping the cloth on their shoulders with enough strength to turn her knuckles white. Behind them, Scions and mages began to fill into the space of the hallway, their faces twisted it fits of rage and insurmountable concern. He could laugh at the grandiose entrance, but the look on her face allayed his laughter. 

“Well,” Hades leaned back slightly, resting himself upon the tops of his heels. The chain was fully visible to him now, a long, lean line glowing from his gauzed torso and across to that of her own. He took note of the hole that still blazed on her chest, brighter now that he could witness it in person. It heaved with each of her breaths, blinking as if it meant to spread further, a warning. “I must say, I didn’t expect such an audience this evening.”

The Exarch moved from the group behind, reaching to take hold of the Oracle’s place. Emilia’s eyes fell on him, seething, but D’ve stopped her before she could respond. The girl shifted away, settling back to the Hyur’s side, and the Warrior relaxed, exchanging her right to the support of the older, shorter mage. 

Hades made move to stand as the hero turned back. She shook horribly, a sheen of sweat covering her skin, face, dripping across her brow and down the length of her chin. Warily he stilled, watch as she marched toward him, Scions stalking in tow. Every eye in the room seemed to be watching him, gauging to see how he’d react in such close proximity to the hero, the woman he’d, not a week or two prior, had tried to kill. “This is a bit of an unfair disadvantage, is it not?” He stated, uncomfortable.

“We come bearing no harm.” Urianger responded.

The ginger miqo’te’s eyes narrowed as they continued to move, “Emilia specifically asked to see you, Emet-Selch. We’re simply accompanying.”

It was achingly slow, almost pathetic, at the way in which she limped to him, panting and wincing at her every step. The closer she became, the stronger he could feel the light churning beneath her skin; he was marginally shocked that the others had yet to take notice. Though, with what the child had said, he doubted they knew to what extent she had fallen, and would, without something to diverge it. 

“Though I’m flattered, hero, you look as if you are bidding upon death’s call. Perhaps another time would be best for your questions.” Hades could feel himself trying to building up his own aether, despite the fact that he yet had the control, or ability, to wield it. The look in her eyes, the position, it brought back uncomfortable memories of their final exchange. The hopeless pleading for him to listen to her, to let the Warrior bear his sorrow, and halt his course, exchange bloodshed for life, in essence of those he’d slaughtered, and lost. Ever the selfless one, it seemed, even now; it made him wonder if this visit was out of pity.

The arms grasping her tightened as a convulsion ripped through her, painful and hot. A deep heat was pulsing in her chest, familiar to that which she’d remembered plaguing her the night her comrades chose to sedate her. There was a purpose for his resurrection, and her companions be damned, she had to understand how, and why, he lived; the Mother refused to answer her calls, so surely she’d spoken with the Ascian in turn.

With a huff Emilia fell to her knees, the hands of her comrades helping to catch and lower her without the weight of her body worsening the landing. A deep discomfort began to pull at him, warning him to shrink away from the brightness, the- “D-Don’t…move.” She rasped, looking to his eyes.

Y’shtola scoffed and moved forward, “Emilia, allow us to a-”

The hero glared up to her, unwavering in her conviction, fury. Her sharp ears had drawn tightly to her skull, face twisting to a look of pure, inviolable anger. D’ve sighed and walked over to the Night’s Blessed miqo’te. Gently, he rested a hand on her shoulder, whispering a promise of her health from beneath his breath.

Icy focus greeted him again, and for the first time, the Ascian took note that her eyes were now blue-both, as opposed to the mismatched gold she’d originally adorned on her right. Interesting.

He stiffened as she suddenly reached out, her shaking hands taking him firmly by the shoulders of his linen blouse. It was a gentle enough hold, weak and quivering, easily broken had he the strength to rip her hands from his person, but the tension still served to remind him of the wound on his chest. “How…Did…you survive…”

Hades chuckled, looking down to her, “Need I truly answer that, hero?”

She didn’t waver, “I know…she speak to…y-you.”

“Your primal, you mean?” He scoffed, “Again, you and yours come bearing to me these questions…” The Ascian looked around to her comrades with venomous disdain, “Honestly, what advantage would it be for me to share a response? Had that child not bid to your senses of humanity,” D’ve’s ears flattened in defense, “I’d of been left to rot in that disgusting cell, unbeknownst to your precious Champion, it seems. Had you need of my knowledge, then-”

“I…I will…let you go…” The hero interjected, voice teetering upon the edge of breaking. “J…just answer me.”

Hades returned his gaze to her. She knew not the gravity of her promise, nor the reason her insufferable Mother wouldn’t never allow that to pass-let alone the Scions. Surely she wasn’t that blind... “Have you not witnessed her will for yourself?”

Emilia winced, her expression falling and cooling, distant, "S-s...she will not g-grant me...audience." He could see tears beginning to build in the corners of her eyes, “I can’t…h-hear her…anymore.”

Ryne suddenly moved away from her charge, sidestepping the Gunblade wielder’s protective, outstretched arm. As she walked towards them, looking back to reassure, her hands moved to clasp a tight prayer across her chest. “I…When Emilia…woke, for the first time, I was summoned to help. We all believed what was happening inside of her was the same as before…when…” The girl trailed off, but continued quickly, “I-I heard her, Hydaelyn, speaking to someone, but…that someone wasn’t her. I...she came to you, resurrected you, didn’t she?”

Hades could feel cold anger beginning to boil within him. He’d forgotten the Oracle could be sensitive to her divine interventions, speak them, relive them. Had she perhaps seen the purpose for his agreement? “So that’s why you’ve come? Desperate enough now, are we, since I refused to answer you before...Instead, you bring her,” He sneered, “A broken husk of a Warrior, to come beg for a story?”

Emilia’s hands clenched at him tightly, pulling him down further to her gaze. He fought it, clenching his teeth in response. “I want to know…why...s...she s-saved you...wh...when I...” Wet trails of tears were falling over her cheeks. She shook her head, diverting from her previous thought, “You…you told me to remember…I…I need to know.”

Her words broke him. With all his strength, he reached and grasped hold of her hands, meaning to throw her from him. The sudden cock of a gun and shuffle of feet responded, the Exarch’s staff was the first to lower into his sight, resting upon his jaw. “Enough, Emet-Selch. We will palaver, relinquish what we know for that of your own.” His eyes were cold, hard. Without his magicks, his aether, Hades-though reluctant to admit-was in no state to argue. “If what Ryne says is true and it was indeed the Mother who has brought you back to us, then we will need to collaborate for her cause.”

Y’shtola’s rod rung hollowly as it touched back upon the crystalline floor, Thancred, in tow, lowered his blade. “Thou wishe’d to display an unambiguous act of kindness to us within the forests of Rak'tika,” Urianger spoke now, crossing his arms over his chest, “Prithee, if you may humor us again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> In lieu of the previous chapter, and so many wonderful comments, I thought I'd summarize a little of this newest update here!
> 
> \- Emilia is now awake-anyone want to guess how she actually made it to the Tower without everyone noticing right away? 2 points if you get it right...UwU
> 
> -Hades has been moved to a more stable environment in the Crystal Tower, though it was D've's insistence, the Exarch conceded thus he can keep a closer watch on him (plus he's a soft potato who, even against an enemy, I don't feel would be so cruel to leave him bolted to a wall...). I'll describe a little more of the quarters as well as the situations that transgressed during his move more so in the next few chapters, now that everyone is all reacquainted...lol 
> 
> -If you are wondering, yes, the wound Hades wore at the end of the Dying Gasp is the same which both he and the Warrior of Light have, one being real and the other being a metaphorical representation of her soul. With Hades' aether sight (which they discuss in the short read Through His Eyes on the Lodestone), he is able to see that fragmentation in Emilia's soul. Which, from chapter 1, Hydaelyn hinted at in the void-we will divulge more in coming updates.
> 
> -Yes, Thancred and D've are a couple. Yes, Ryne is a precious potato and Thancred deserves to be slapped for his attitude....Yes, the sauce will be written out as we continue with the story, sorry to stop us before we could witness it...UwU I didn't want to ruin the mood for what's to come.
> 
> -Elidibus' dialogue IS what he said at the end of the game expansion, and yes, it will be important as we move forward with this alternate ending 
> 
> If you have any questions, any of which I didn't mention here or that you'd like to have answered, feel free to leave a comment! :D  
I was quite worried with the ending of this chapter, particularly with how everyone would react having divulged so much in Chapter 3, but I felt like Emilia would truly want to see him. She has a lot of emotional/memory luggage tied with all the people she's had to kill, witness dying, etc, and no matter the circumstances, she wouldn't have wanted the same for our dear Emet-Selch. Also, she's still in quite a bad mental/health state, so I didn't want to just slam us with her remembering everything that's happened so far. When I'd had a concussion in the past, I know it was extremely difficult for me to recall things, even if someone had just said it to me (lol) so I'm trying to convey that here as well. 
> 
> Thank you so so much for the support, kindness, and love - really, this has given my IRL friend D've and I so much to discuss about with the upcoming plot and characters and I'm extremely excited to share it with you! 
> 
> If you'd like to see a reference of my character, I post artwork of her, D've, and others on Twitter, under the username @MagicaAria


	5. Luminoscity

The group stood within the ring of the Ocular.  
Much like the fashion in which they had upon his first appearance with the troupe, Hades stood at the center’s most edge, the West, with Scions encasing the positionals around him. The Exarch held the north, Thancred and the Oracle the Southeast and South, Y’shtola at his right, D’ve and the twins to his left, Urianger in the Northeast, and directly across from him sat that of the Warrior of Light.

They’d fetched a chair for her, a metal thing with a tall back and curved arms. She clung to its frame with white knuckles, limbs shaking and skin a placid, sickly white. Her hair was disheveled, more so than it usually was, the visible gauze on her chest and arms stained with mixtures of sweat and various dribbles of blood. The hero continued to stare at him, even as they had moved from his cell to the more spacious abode of the Exarch. The tears had dried, though he still found himself confused by her confession-why was the Mother ignoring her Champion?

“I suppose the matter at hand is to find a place to begin,” The male twin stated, looking around to his comrades. “Quickly, though, if we may.”

A few wandering eyes roved to the Warrior, taking in her state, “We could begin with the Tempest,” Y’shtola spoke, “There’s much of our time there that we can reflect on, explain, now that Emet-Selch has returned.”

Alisae rolled her eyes, “No offense, but I feel we’re past that point now. If he’s back,” She gestured to Hades, “Then we need to prepare for what comes next. What of the other Ascians?” 

“And what of Emilia?” The Warrior of Light held up a shaky hand, aware of the impending snap that would come from her comrade, but D’ve turned on the Red Mage quickly, seething, “You’ll not stay another of his kind when one of your only defenses against them is a _Sin Eater, _or worse. Have you forgotten how powerful he, they, are? I may hold some of Hydaelyn’s blessing, but none of us are Emilia.”

The female twin held her ground, scowling.

“Pray, let us remain at ease,” Urianger shook his head, “We have grown weary upon our own rite, yet we palaver here to commend a solution. Let us remain on course.”

“We’d know where to begin if our _Ascian friend_ would cooperate,” Thancred quipped, crossing his arms, “But it seems that’s unlikely.”

“Right you are,” Hades snapped, sending a glare to the Hyur. He hadn’t had time to formulate his thoughts on this matter; what information would be just to divulge, and which would best serve him in the end? The Warrior’s comrades were too weary of him, justly so, and he needed to ensure that whatever his choices may be, he had the ability to still set himself upon a course that would allow him control of the matter. He vaguely wondered if Elidibus knew of his revival. “How very observant. And after all this time I’d of thought you to be dull.”

“Let us_ instead_,” The Exarch interjected with a soft tap of his staff upon the ground, stopping the Hyur from reaching to his blade. “Begin with Ryne.” The Scions looked to him as the Oracle nodded, “She’s of those among us who had had the closest interaction with Hydaelyn.”

Y’shtola nodded, “Indeed. She spoke of various visions over these past bells, Ryne?”

The red-headed Oracle tapped her chin thoughtfully, “I…I only hear whisperings. She repeats them sometimes, but I don’t know how much of it I can make sense of. Sometimes it’s simply feelings, rather than words.”

“Any detail may proveth to be of use,” Urianger prompted, “Do divulge to us all of which you can.”

“I…see shades, sometimes,” Her brow furrowed, hands twinning in nervousness, “When we arrived home from the Tempest. I couldn’t tell if they were perhaps Emet-Selch or Emilia, their figures looked the same, but-”

“The same?” Alisae quirked an eyebrow.

“She’s speaking of their corporal aether,” Y’shtola responded, “I’d noticed it as well, when we were notified of his presence in the stalls.” Her gaze fell upon the Ascian expectantly, glazing over his form with slow, observant eyes. She stopped as she met with his chest, the wound. He doubted she held enough power to witness the chain that he and the hero branded from across their circle but regardless, he chose to remain silent on the matter. “His soul shines just as hers, blindingly so. Truly, had I not heard them speak, I couldn’t have told you which was which. There’s some differences now,”

Emilia winced as she tried to sit up, a wet cough filling the room. The pairs of Scions around her made move to come to her side, but she waved them away annoyedly, the other hand clenching just below her rib. “W-w…what of them?”

The seer moved her gaze upon her, frowning, “We may pause this conversation, Emilia. I know you are eager, but-“

“I’m fine,” She snapped, glaring. “I will not sleep again without answers. Go on.” 

“Ryne was the one to notice these changes, I will admit.” Y’shtola continued with a sigh, “I only came to realize after seeing the two of you, but Emilia-”

“Your soul,” The Oracle’s face was twisted into a state of immense sadness. “I…I heard the Mother speak of it. A balance, your memories. She said…she was it was undone. I…”

“Undone is a term one could use to describe it, yes.” Hades looked to the hero as well, watching as she breathed. Emilia looked up at him, ragged, broken pants falling from her cracked, open lips. The hole was glowing back at him, the chain ever present in its tether. He could divulge this much at least; they needed to become aware of their Warrior’s situation. If she was tethered to him for the entirety of his time, however long that may be, upon that of this star, then he needed to ensure she could remain living long enough for him to discover what the Mother’s plans for him were.

“How would thou describe it, pray tell?” Urianger inquired.

The Ascian’s head tilted, looking over the shards which glowed near her middle. “Shattered. Glass, broken from something which struck upon its core,” He followed the line of purpled aether, lustrous near the edges of her wound, “Though, what made purchase in that center decidedly removed itself upon the other side.”

D’ve’s brow furrowed, “A hole, then?”

“You’ve born witness to this this _entire time_?” Alisae snapped, taking an angry step towards him. “Shouldn’t you have divulged this information _sooner?”_

“You’d yet to have asked the right question, child.” Truly, he hadn’t missed these shards and their insufferable rudeness. “Considering I’ve been locked away within the tower, I can only say what I see now, can’t I?

Emilia clenched her teeth and sat up, fighting off another series of coughs. Her arms buckled and shook over her hands, white-knuckled in their grasp upon the railings, “C-can you show me?” 

The eyes in the room suddenly turned to her, the atmosphere tensing. Hades made to respond, but Alphinaud interjected, “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea, he-” 

“I want to see it,” She hissed, sliding to her feet. The hero wobbled, wincing as she rose, “I-I’ve felt that something was…wrong, and if he can see it, then I want to know w-what it is.”

Hades crossed his arms, shaking his head. Even with her steadfast perseverance, will, he doubted she would be able to remain conscious long enough for him to even test his previous theories. If the Warrior, too, had the same chain quality as he, then the very same spaces could apply; the problem for her, however, would be her affinity to the Light. 

With his darkness, he could feed it into the blessing, overpower it and manipulate it, in theory. To contrast, the Warrior’s had a possibility to fodder those gaps, possibly strengthen their hold upon he, and she, in return; and that was in a best-case scenario, he imagined. “As unwavering as your resolve may be, hero, let us wait,” Hades stated, “As you are, and even if I had the ability to use my aether, you wouldn’t be able to withstand the sheer process. Let alone what would come after.”

The group looked on at him in confusion. He was right, they’d yet to realize how far she’d fallen, “Pray tell, _Ascian_, what would that _process _entail?” Thancred’s gaze was full of venom. 

The latter glared back, “As someone who cannot wield his own aether, I don’t feel it concerns you, does it?”

The Hyur snapped his blade from his back and threw open the chamber, a bullet now held in hand. Ryne reached and grabbed hold of his arm with terrified eyes, clinging upon him before he could make purchase with stocking the gun. The other Scions in the room began to rile as well, mostly to help their comrade from the Ocular, but as they did, the Warrior of Light began cough.

“Agh!” The hacking racked through her violently, making her eyes clamp shut in pain, body convulsing with the force of her efforts. D’ve was the first to her, sprinting across to grab as she made to fall forward.

“Remove her, now,” The Exarch had moved behind him, gesturing to the guards standing at the door. Thancred and Ryne had stilled alongside them, “Again, she's pushed herself too far. I’ll send for Lyna to assist you.”

“I will not t-take the sedations,” The miqo’te hero hissed, leaning her head into her student’s neck. Blood stained her lips as she spoke, “N-not again.” 

“We will see what they _suggest_ of you,” D’ve stated, pulling his arms to the underside of her own. Her body fell weakly against him, legs and knees shaking, “The most important thing you need right now is to lay down. You’re burning up.”

Hades pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel it, the heat that’d begun to clamp at her chest, the weakness in her limbs, her muscles; it was radiating through his own, the wound in his chest. Though doubly healed from its previous state, his torso felt as if it was torn fresh again, splintering.

The hero watched him from over her comrade’s shoulder, wheezing as she pulled away to look at the Ascian. His eyes met hers with cool, calculating gold. If she was coughing blood, then her lungs were obstructed, possibly pierced, by the fragments of her aether. “E-Emet…Selch.”

Emilia clutched her arms to the shoulders of her comrade. She couldn’t make it through the night in this state, let alone the week or so it’d take him to resolve his theories-not if the pain was any indication. “I have yet to test my notions, but…there could yet be something we can try for her.”

Y’shtola looked on from his side, “And what would that be?”

“I spoke of what I’ve seen, can you and yours not see the same?”

The seer shook her head in confusion, “See what?”

Hades sighed, “Your hero, her soul. You’ve made hint well enough that we are similar, but can you not see this hole I speak of? Not in the slightest?”

Ryne’s eyes fell back to Emilia, contemplating. “Not…not really.” She frowned. It was to be expected, she was yet too young, inexperienced, “I can see her normal light. I can tell it’s brighter than usual, damaged, but I cannot see a hole.”

“Same as I,” Y’shtola stated, “Though the fissures are harder for me to see, as I’ve mentioned. What does this bear of importance?” 

“You want me to speak of the process I am in the thralls of conceiving, yes?” His eyes flashed to Thancred, which seemed to reignite the Hyur’s sour scowl. “The matter at hand, however, is her. If she is induced again, I don’t believe she will wake for a third time.”

An eerie silence fell to the room. D’ve’s ears twitched as he looked back to The Ascian, “And why is that?”

“Your Mother,” He tried searching for the words. How could he bend her truth, Hydaelyn’s word, so they could sense his verity yet protect himself in the same? “In the void, I recall her speaking the same as your Oracle stated, felt, rather. Though I think the evidence may speak for itself,” Hades set his jaw, “More or less, your hero's soul is eating away at her vessel.”

Emilia began to cough again, her hands squeezing into the robes of D’ve’s attire. The guard that had left his post at the door returned, the Viera officer in tow. Each surrounded the back of her chair, aiding the Summoner with holding the Warrior as she shook, blood, again, trickling from her lips. “Is that not the same thing that happened to her with the Light of the wardens?” Ryne inquired.

Hades stepped forward, watching as the hero’s eyes watered in pain. “No, child,” He looked down to her, “The Light from the wardens she absorbed took to her without conflict, her soul was simply too weak to contain all of their Light.”

Y’shtola followed behind him, watching with a weary eye, “And what of her now, since she was too weak before?”

The hero coughed again, doubling over in the arms of the guards. As they made to hold her, blood splattered from her mouth, staining the ground between she and the approaching Ascian. Hades bent the same, clutching his ribs with a sharp inhale of breath. Urianger and Y’shtola started, moving to him in shock, “I-I’ll attempt to stay her fragmentation,” He rasped, “It should allow you and yours more time to find a more…favorable solution.”

Emilia clenched her teeth, an effort to stay the panting, the pain. The heat was back, blistering at her throat, her breath; everything stung, her skin, the cloth that rested against the gauze, the hands at her arms and back. Had she the strength, she felt she would have cried out at their touch, her weakness; since when had the Warrior of Light fallen so low as to rely on everyone so heavily? She felt her fists clenching. Why hadn’t the Mother come to her, told her of these ailments herself?

D’ve would never let her live this down. He had been angry enough when he found he was absent from her awakening, doubly so when he realized she’d snuck away to the tower. The Oracle was still a child, and in all manner of the term, it had been wrong for Emilia to press upon Ryne to aid her, but she had confirmation now. Isolated from the Mother or not, she heard her; he lived.

“I require use of my aether.” The hero looked to the Ascian, watching as he clutched at the fabric of his blouse, panting, wincing. Cool, gold eyes stared back at her, watching as she, too, gasped for air, for relief. He wore a large white linen top, opened at the collar, with belled sleeves that’d been rolled past his wrists, an effort to keep the excess fabric from hindering him, no doubt. Black trousers and equally black boots adorned his lower half, a matching set of gloves stuck to that of his hands. Absently, she felt herself drawn to his change in regalia; did he like wearing clothes such as these?

Y’shtola bent to him, a hesitant hand reaching out to his shoulder, “How can we help?”

Thancred groaned from her left, “Are we _really _entertaining an _Ascian?” _He gestured to him wildly, _“_Since when did we blindly give ourselves over to what he wants? How do we not know he’s not scheming to finish her off? He’d already tricked the lot of us in Vauthry’s keep.”

The Hyur was right. This was only solidifying Hades’ stay with them, solidifying his involvement. D’ve pulled his satchel from his side, removing his tome from its holstering belts. The text glowed as he opened it, a dark sheen of green and blue shining over its pages, “Can you wield your aether through someone else, Emet?” 

The Ascian looked up to him, surprised to hear his title addressed without the formality. He’d yet to contemplate a bridge for his aether channeling, though it seems the boy had been doing so over the course of their discussion. If the Ascian remembered well enough, there had been a paragon who’d inclined themselves to the arcane, a particular Hyur if he recalled, who’d dabbled in a summon utilizing a darkly affiliated primal. If this miqo’te had ability to channel a summon similarly enough, then…then perhaps he could. “It’s been an age since I’ve attempted something of that effect, though in theory it should be possible, yes.”

“I’ll be the catalyst, then.”

The Hyur was practically foaming with rage, ripping himself from Ryne’s hands. “_You’ll be the **what?”**_

“I’ll be the one to do it,” D’ve snapped, glaring at the arm which he’d pulled from the Oracle. “I’m the only one here who can manage the channel.”

“Calm yourself, Thancred.” G’raha’s ears folded against his fading red hair. He stepped across the floor, stopping at the side of the hero, staring down at her as if hurt, conflicted. “As much as I don’t like this idea, we have little option, be it time is of the essence.”

“I am in agreement with thine Exarch and D’ve,” Urianger nodded, “We’ve all come aware of our friend’s descent from the Tempest. If the crystalline Mother sought Emet-Selch from the rift in act to aid in our avail, then we should allow him an opportunity to make amend.”

Hades watched as the Exarch’s fists clenched. At least with a glimpse into their tether, her fragmentation, he could perhaps gain an understanding of what Hydaelyn wanted with his newfound mortality. “What primals can you wield, Summoner?”

.

Emilia clenched her jaw as he kneeled before her.

Her mind was slow, working laboriously to comprehend, listen. Everyone’s speech felt elongated, muddy, as if submerged in a tankard of water. Her thoughts were still jumbled, unfocused and hard to pinpoint. Why couldn’t she remember anything?

His movements were slow, labored and tired, but he lowered to her level without help, looking up as he settled upon the backs of his heels. Golden irises shone brightly from behind his darkened, sleep deprived eyes, watching her, waiting. The look was familiar, curious, but the disappointment radiated from them in palpable waves. What had the Mother shared with him, told him? What did the thing in her chest look like? Didn’t…Didn’t she do the same to him before…

D’ve bent and spread open his book upon the ground before them, its soft glow illuminating the trio in greens and halos of a pale, iridescent blue. Scions encircled their center in turn, allowing space but hovering protectively about the edge.

“Can you hear me, hero?” Emilia swallowed as Emet-Selch addressed her. Chastising, that was familiar.

“Y-yes.”

He nodded, “I will be fusing my aether, or what I can of it, through your comrade, in turn through you.” D’ve nodded in understanding, she followed, “Both of you will need to open yourselves to its flow. It may be uncomfortable, since your light so vehemently fights against my affinity to the Dark, though it should be easy enough for you to sense it when it reaches you.”

“I plan to gaze upon the source of the hole which I see in your chest,” He continued, waiting for her to respond in acceptance. What did it look like? “If your essence is as mine, there may be spaces in the seal which I can infuse my aether into. My theory hopes to break those bindings, or at least weaken them enough that your networks can begin to flow at their normal pacings. Again, I only theorize this may work, I know not the severity of your fragmentations, not until I witness them.”

Urianger spoke from behind, “By fusing thine own affinity into her, will it not react negatively with the blessing?" 

“It will,” Emet-Selch stated. He’d forgotten how intelligent the elezen was. “Though if the flow is consistent enough, no harm should come to your hero, or Summoner.” 

“It...It will hurt you.” Emilia rasped, looking to him softly, sadly.

“You honor me with your concern,” He gave a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Again, ever selfless. “Though that should be little of your worry. I'll manage well enough.”

“If you’re sure,” D’ve bit his lip, sighing, “Let’s try it then.”

Emet-Selch nodded, gesturing to his book, “The summon, if you please.”

A large swell of aether began to build in the Summoner, ripping and tearing through the air with hot, angry crackles. He closed his eyes and placed his hand over the pages, spreading his palm across the spine. The book in turn glowed, pulsing its light in time with the magicks that’d begun to feed through it. D’ve furrowed his brow and placed his other hand atop the first, surging his essence through his fingers, his chest.

Dark tendrils of purple began to grow from the text, spinning and twisting into the pages, the floor, rising up to meet his hands. Blued horns emerged from the center, a piercing screech filling the room. The three in the innermost circle flinched, but watched on as the head of the dreadwyrm Bahamut began to come into focus.

Hades sucked in a breath and removed the glove from his left, extending it atop the miqo’te’s outstretched pair. “Start absorbing it’s aether and hold it, as long as you can, focus on its affinity, not Hydaelyn.” D’ve looked up to him and nodded, focusing back to the primal in his text.

The Ascian set his jaw as he began to dive into his own aetheric core. They glared back at him, the chains, as bright and obtrusive as he’d remembered. The spaces became visible as he neared, almost immediately, dull where the Light had yet to spread, reach. With his utmost focus, Hades bore down upon a set to his left, tethered to his rib, and began to will his magicks to his shoulder, his forearm, fingers.

As is with all of his trials prior, Hydaelyn fought against him, stewing his memories back from their deepest depths, untempered and sweeter than he’d remembered over his centuries upon the First. A guard, to keep him from tampering, interfering.

_The grass blew gently, rustling beneath his outstretched limbs. A cool, crisp breeze accompanied it, encircling his robes and the hair which fell just atop his opened, blanketing cowl. He suddenly wished he’d adorned a thicker undershirt, something warmer than the thin cloths of the convocation, but he was haphazard in his planning. He wanted to clear his head, and he was comfortable enough, even if just slightly cold. _

_Hades settled then, stretching his ankles and hands, allowing them to loosen before returning the pairs to cross at his feet and his wrists, the latter supporting the back of his head. Leaves, golden in their hue, rustled atop him, releasing the oldest to fall upon the grounds he laid. He ignored them in lieu of his mask, including the stray pairs that’d landed atop his chest, but he’d grown to like this tree, it shone differently than the rest. _

_“Dear friend, I know you are inclined towards idleness, but shouldn’t you perhaps do so after your work has been completed?” _

_Hades could sense a hue of gold, as if a sunset, standing at the base of his legs. The owner loomed above him, watching, but the aura of their aether seemed amused. He rolled his eyes, “Must you always sour my mood with work, Hythlodaeus? I’ve made well to complete that which was most pressing, Lahabrea can wait for my approval on the rest.”_

_“I don’t believe our Speaker will feel the same,” Hythlodaeus chuckled from beneath his white Amaurotine mask, bending to sit alongside his companion._

D’ve sucked in a breath, biting down on his lip in an attempt to focus, to stabilize. The aether feeding from his summon was cool, uncomfortable against the heat in his arm, his hand. He could feel the blessing of the Mother awakening, pressing against the pulse in his veins, but he fought it, willed it to stay, at least until he could sense the Ascian within him.

Hades snapped his focus into the chain, willing himself into the spaces, the gaps, with the power he could feel building beneath his palm. With a set of his jaw, he bore down with all of his might, feeding from the primal and the Summoner, relishing in the cool that greeted him upon the joining of his soul. The beast cried out, its shriek filling the room once more as the essence of its muzzle and horns began to smoke and evaporate. D’ve watched on as the dreadwyrm began to fade back into the arcane circle in his text, an angry, transparent outline now lingering where the primal had been naught a moment prior.

The miqo’te tensed as a sudden shiver ran through his arm, but Hades pushed faster than he could recoil, snagging the networks of his aether like a vice. He tried to breathe, to open himself to the condonement of their spirits, but the miqo’te could feel his core trying to fight it, to will him away at the darkness.

“Just…A little more,” The Ascian rasped, “H-hold it steady.”

_His comrade laughed happily, resting his head upon his shoulder in a comfortable, lazy nuzzle. Hades tensed at the contact, “Must you always laugh at my expense?”_

_Hythlodaeus continued to chortle, the melodic tenor in his voice vibrating that of the younger man’s collar. He should be uncomfortable with the display of affection, but it was warming him, comforting. “’Tis your fault, my friend,” He wheezed, “If you were not so oblivious, I’d almost pity you.”_

_Hades felt his cheeks gain heat, he knew what he was referring to. “And what do you mean by that?”_

_“Oh, Hades~” Hythlodaeus grasped ahold of his rib, breathing hard._

A wash of relief fell over the pain in his chest, easing the sting he’d felt pulsing through him former. Hades watched on as purpled aether swelled into the chain, mingling with the blued luminosity of the blessing he felt ever present upon the latter half of his body. Gentle, hesitant coils of magicks swelled to greet him, as lovers would in night, in quiet, beautiful silence. He could feel tears beginning to build in his eyes, a relief to know he’d managed, in minimal capacity, to regain a homage of his power. Amaurot, his home, his brethren-they lived in him once more-a sliver.

_“Why are you still here, Emet-Selch?” Hythlodaeus stood at his doorway, a hand resting upon his hip in speculating, calculated worry. His hood was down, as it oft was in the Bureau, but his mask remained upon his face. “Shouldn’t you have left upon the last bell? You had an appointment with the Convocation tonight, did you not?”_

_The Architect released an angry sigh, pushing a series of scrolls from his workstation. They rolled helplessly across the marble floor, lost as his hands slammed upon the surface of his desk. A scattering of ink, protractors, and pens accompanied them with hollow, cacophonous clatter, “Why must the Speaker continue to send me these proposals!?” His voice rung into the expanse of his office, deeper and louder than he’d intended, “I’ve warned him of his plagiary. I’ll not approve another of these,” Hades swung an arm at a collection of files, “Not until that...that imbecile can make well to do it with his _ **own ** _hand, not hers!”_

_“Hades,” His friend took a step inside, holding a finger out in warning, “You and I both know that you’d do well to quell that anger of yours, lest she sense it from the Akademia. Or the Speaker, no less.”_

_The red mask he normally adorned vanished, fading at the snap of his hand. “I made well to attempt to distract myself with his monotony, Hyth, but how am I supposed to approve them knowing he **made **her write them? What would you have me do?” _

“D-Did it work?” D’ve was gasping, leaning over his book with sweat dripping down his brow.

Hades recoiled from within himself, turning from the chains and out to the flow he now felt within his left arm. It was lethargic, more so than the others he could see within the room, but it was there, his magicks, creation, surging in his veins, his fingers, like a newly formed, gentle stream. He flexed his hand, awed by the iridescent light that’d returned to his skin, purpled and red; his. “Y-yes,” He rasped, looking now to the Warrior. She’d doubled over in her chair, leaning upon the frame with arms clutched at her ribs, holding herself, as her head rested at its side. “Ready, hero?”

Her eyes met his with a glaze, but Emilia made a small motion with her head nonetheless, “T-tell…me what I need…to do.”

The Ascian winced as he lifted his arm, extending a hand out to her. It was just a small portion, a little crack in the hold Hydaelyn still had on him, but it should be enough, “It will be more painful for you, but try to build up your aether.”

“In…my hand?” She rasped, unfurling her arms.

“Yes,” He turned over his palm, “Try to concentrate it in your fingers. My aether will enter here,” Hades gestured over her wrist, “I’ll be as fast as I can. Knowing your affinity, it will most likely try to…rebuke me, once I make for your soul, but lest us worry about that if the time comes.”

Emilia held out a shaky hand, laying it upon his upturned twin. Calloused fingers brushed over his palm, resting at the bone now protruding from his wrist, and settled as he moved to encase it. She flinched as he did so, but watched on in silence as his eyes closed in focus. “Your aether, hero.”

“R-Right.”

_Wind ripped through her hair, blowing back the length to a taught, waved line behind her head. Her bangs, ragged and chopped, flipped against her ears and cheeks, small kisses of the gale as the land trudged by below her. A surge of unadulterated joy pulsed in her chest, warm, adrenaline mingling to a crescendo of excitement. _

_The ginger hair of her companion was much the same, billowing behind him as he moved alongside her. He waved a mischievous hand, beckoning her down into the spiraling canyons at their horizon. Emilia grinned wickedly, twisting the feathers of her hawk to gain momentum, dive her towards him._

_She couldn’t very well let her student beat her, could she?_

Hades pushed deeper, emerging within the void at his core. The chains, bright and warm, greeted him as he slowly descended, a steadfast reminder that he had yet more to remove, despite this momentary freedom. With a set of his jaw, he moved deeper, focusing on the aether that’d begun to pulse against his hand. He brought forth a margin of his magicks, coating his mind, spirit, with their cool, and waited in turn for the Warrior.

A weak, hesitant, response came forth, but he felt the barriers of their soul’s merge, welcoming him into the networks of her aether. With focus in mind, he pressed on and moved betwixt his void, stepping through the chains, their tether, and into the shattered halls of her soul. 

Winding hallways branched as he entered, spiraling and twisting in furls he was assured, medical journal or not, they shouldn’t have been. The chains, ever present within his core, seemed to barb within her, each crossing as he passed deeper within their hero, threateningly bright as he moved closer, still, to the fragmentation in her chest. Emilia’s blessing had yet to reprimand his intrusion, but he had a feeling it would have a hard time finding him, at least within this maze.

_He watched as they skipped through the gardens, laughing happily at the small, plantlike creation that chased them. Its head was bulbous, a small pair of leaves protruding from his scalp. This little...thing, it was rather amusing, he’d admit. _ _He couldn’t ever tell them, of course._

Bright blue tendrils began to flitter amongst the hallways, a stark contrast to the gold which coated the walls and floors. Hades began to build up his aether, searching for the chains, the spaces, which he’d sensed in her from his prison. This close, her bindings were too bright, he couldn’t see betwixt the blaring luminosity of them, at least with aether recalled, he could perhaps discern a seal. “R-recall some of your aether, hero.” The weakness of his own voice shocked him, but his thoughts were whole, enough to continue. He’d be weak when he returned to his vessel.

_The bulbous plant fell as it struck against a tree, a pitched warble escaping its body at the contact. The pair of Amaurotine’s stopped suddenly, the shorter of the two turning back and running to its side. “Oh, it’s okay little one,” A gentle, alto voice flitted from behind their cowl, mask, a smile written upon their face as they knelt. A gloved hand emerged from the arms of their robe, stroking at the white scalp of the plant-like creature, “Please be more careful, alright?”_

He felt as if he were boiling this close to the wound. Fragmentations of crystals hung in bindings above him, in front, below, tethered by chains and stakes of hideous, twisted Light. Hades tread slowly, moving to the edge of the purpled, gnarled hole which he’d seen torn through her center. It pulsed, glowing faintly as he neared, “Brace yourself.”

_H̶̹̔ë̵̡́ ̷͘͜w̷̱͝a̴̰̒t̵̪̊c̵̢͘h̷̘̊e̷͛ͅd̸̯̓ ̷̯͝ả̶̦s̵̪͋ ̴̗̅s̶̯̉h̶͙́e̶̦̊ ̷̣͊l̴̗̀ò̸̼o̷̱͝k̸̹̈́ẽ̷̜d̷͉̚ ̷̧̚o̴͙͗u̸͔͋ut upon the seats of her brothers, sisters, watching as they rose from their pedestals in elegant, uniform silence. Each member adorned their hoods, visages of red masquerading their faces, expressions. S̸̝̒́h̶̻͊͗e̴̝̣͛̇ ̶͚̲̃͠w̵̝͝a̸̭͋s̵͎̤̈ ̵̦̣̀s̸̫̘̒̈h̶̬̠̋a̵̹̾͝k̴̼̔̊i̴̗̝͝ǹ̷̼̝̏g̸̙͂͜,̷͖̺̿ ̶͓̏k̴̭̠̈́̀n̸̥͎͗̔è̵͍͜e̶̜̩͑͠l̴̢̦͘î̷͔n̴̹͊̎g̷͎̐̈́ ̸̩̙͐ư̸̳̪p̵̳̟̐ǫ̴͍̽n̸͈̅͊ ̶̘̆͐ẗ̷̟͇h̷̤͇̅̂ẹ̸́͝ ̶̢̹̽͊g̶̮̳͂̃ŕ̴̗o̸̘̰̐u̸̟̭̒̚n̷̢͗d̴̞̭̏ ̶̩̬͑b̷͇̩͆e̸̬̓f̴̧͈͝ǫ̶̾r̸̰̈́̓é̴̝͉̌ ̷̢̩̃͒t̵͚͇̂h̷̫̒̌e̷͉̍͐m̴͉̏.̸͉̒͝ ̵̥̀ ̷̯͗̔͜_

_“We gather on this night, Convocation of the XIIIth, to receive unto our ranks the last,” The Speaker called from the center of their arc, gesturing to the one before their charge. The eldest of them all, of course he would be the one to lead the ceremony, “Child, please rise.” _

_Ḩ̴͍̃̾̈́̂i̸̛̖̓̈̾̽̚s̵̡͉͚̣̦̺͙̏͑ ̴̛̞͕͐͛̂̎̀̕c̶̛̦̗̲͔̞̀͗̒̃͗̊͜h̴̟̥͕̗͇͕̞̓̍̉̎̿͂e̵̓͜s̷̞̰̜͑̈́̋̃͘t̶̢͇͆̾̓̚ ̷̢͖̳̇̑̾s̵̡̢̤͎̫̤̄́́͊́̚w̵̙̉̍͒ė̶̛̫̍̍l̵͕̓̆̋̐͛̓̈ḻ̸̡̳̫͍͘e̷͈̼̣̺̩̼̓̒̓̊ḑ̶̨̮͚͓͔̊̄ ̸̧̧͙̲̏̆̍̈å̴̬̫̟̯ṭ̸̜̺̑̑̈ ̶̙͇̥̫̩̃̀̋̽̌͌͒ͅẗ̶̩̼̩́͐͒͜h̵͙̬̳̚e̵͚̐̆̊͒̽͊̽ ̶͇̈́̚s̵̼̦̗͎̠̹̉͐̐̚ḭ̶̔͋̎͊̂̉̓g̴͓͇̿̂͝h̷̡̪͚̩̯͂̄͝t̸͍͚̝̗̦̗͔͛͊ ̸͎̣̠͖̐̈́̈͘͝͠͝ò̴̼̠̙̝͚̏̌͒͜f̶͈̦̬̊ ̶͕̙͇͕̎̃̌ȟ̸̤͔̫͑̂̀̄̕e̴̡̹̺̲̺̹̐̇͜ŕ̴̼̼̙̀̕͜,̷̣͙͆̍͋ ̷̜͌̉t̴͖̃̀̂̑h̵̡͔̙̞͔͋́͜͝͝ḙ̸̢̳̲͓̍̀̉̚ ̶͚͖̫̟̈́̂͠ç̵̩̠͙̺͇̻̆͛̏̈ơ̶̛̹̙̩̅̊̾̓ͅw̸̙͇̱̪͌l̷̲͂̃̎͗̆͑ ̷̩̟̩̣̤̳̑̌n̷͚̪̋́̓̉͌͂̽ȏ̶̼̣̤́̊w̵͔̗͋̏͛̆̚͝ ̷͓̩̹̌̈́̈́̀̕͠r̵̦͊̊e̵͓̊͑͗͊̽̇m̷̳̞̲̲͔̣̈́̄̇̽͂o̴̮̱̾̿͌̕v̵͔͕̺̪͒̈́̓̃͌͐͆e̶̢͚͓̳͔̘̋̀̌͘d̴̢̗̖̀̑͆̄̀ ̷̩̟̹̻͇̺̠̉͠f̸̠̦̯͆́̽͘̕͠r̷̖̗̖̞̖̂͗̀̋̊ͅỏ̵̱̪͉̹̳m̸͇̙̮̜͙̝̪̋̇͆̄͒͝ ̸̪̜͎̈́͆h̴̯̜̹͓͐ę̸̢͖̘̉̔́̓͝͝r̴̢͎̖͙̦̱̋̈́̍͊́ ̸̺̺̥̭̇̐͊͝f̷̭̩̄á̷̧̺͓͖͖̍͌c̴̬̩̟̱̪̘̦̓ė̶̞͜.̷̣͙͗̎͆́_

_Long, flared brown hair fell past the white of her mask, matching bangs sweeping at its edges before tumbling down the curve of her shoulders, the length of her back. It swayed as she rose, standing before them, their rainbow of aether, of magicks and arcane, with a brilliant, silvery blue._

Hades felt his heart beginning to pound. The Light was lashing out of him, hitting his mind like blows to a glass mirror. He was reeling, drowning in fragments, memories, lifetimes, each crack resounding like a chime within him.

A child crying in a market, begging for food; skinny, malnourished, woefully young.

̵̹̣̼͉̩̒A̶̢̫̳͕͕̔͂̊̿͒̒͘ ̸̢̱͌͒͊̀̓͜m̷̲̣̪͆̈͂a̵̠̦̦̫̲̖͇̓g̸̡͙̽̽͆̀̍e̷̟̗̝̫͌͛̉̍,̶̜̍̀͗̕ ̵͚̆̑̋̽w̶̳̔̍̍̈ḩ̴̖̰̘̤͖̈́͛̿͘͜į̷̢̤̬̊͛̾̊͛̕͝t̶̛͙͐͐̓e̶̗͙͚͕͕̗̥̐̓͒̄̕͝-̶͈̳̫͑h̵̲͈͕͕̦͕̺͘a̴̱̲͍͇̩̓̍í̶̘̖̩͚̪̼͐̓̚r̷̼͔̯̦̍̚e̸͉͖̒̽̔d̶̰̬͒̏ͅ ̵̡͇̝̙̌̿͌̒̈́̽̀b̴̛̫́̃̓͊͗ǘ̵̱͇̘͐̓͊t̴̛͙͊̈͑͑̐ͅ ̸̨̭̗͖̣̮̺̋͊̈́y̸̝̞̻̮̗͙̅o̷̡̰̼̗͎̽̈́͜ů̶̯̦̫̜̬̀̎́̎̈t̴͇͕̰̞̠͒̒̀̂ẖ̵̭̎̃̑f̵̯̈̀͝͝u̶̧͙͕̥̲̓͑̔̋̍̊l̶̢̻̦̣͒̐͋͆̃ͅ comforting a girl with bruises marked upon her cheeks.

Flames, a horned beast standing atop fallen heroes, ṣ̸͔͍̈́ͅc̷͕̽̈́o̷̰͂͒̿͋́̉͑͝r̴̰̬̱̖̣̬̫̫̰̞͋̃c̶̡̼͎̝̝̰͚̮̃̇̈́͛̈́̓͋̔̍͜͝ͅh̷̤̝̫͋̄̓̎̀͋͋̂̊̕ḭ̵̧̤̱̆́̃͝n̵̛̟̣͓̹͈̓̈̆͌̊́͑g̶̪̫̙̤̗͖͇̘̬̋͐́̊̿ͅ ̵̛͈̜͒́͛̏̽̓̃t̸͔̘̟̝̦͕͕͋̈́ḩ̸̩̳̺̤͎͖̦̒̽̅͋͜͜ĕ̷̡̺̺̤̤̓͊ ̵̨͚̩̦̻̭͔̥̔̀͋͝ȩ̵̪̭̻͈̟̣͚̍͒͑͂̈́̈́͌͝ā̶̡͙̙̣͚̝̼̞̓̐̄͜ŕ̶̭̼̺̼̲̘͚̲͜t̵̨̛̲̝̫̰̞̜̦̊͗̾͆̐̂̽̅ͅh̶̭̙͈̱͊̇͜ͅ, the feet of a hero and her charge.

B̸̡͕͇̟̙͎̠͖̳́͋̈́̓̈́͗̊ͅl̸̨̬̼̬͕̳͈̜͚̎̄̋̉̿́̿́ọ̷͇̲̠̻̯̪̣̦͑̐̆̓̃͒̈́͆̔͊̏͜ơ̶̝̹̜̺̠̤̤̼̱͙͓͙̩͋̀̀͠d̵̢̧͔̭͕̱̳̮̮͚͆͛͛̾̒̑͒̔̇̌͘̚͜ͅ.

Sprites dancing happily at her fingers, squealing and joyful, b̴̧̞̳̦͎̙̘͚̅̚͠͝r̴͓̈́̄̔̓ĩ̴̬͎͉̺̰͔̯͐̃͋́̂̀͂̈͛͜ĺ̷̨̙͚̻͝l̸̢̢̧͙̪̰̭̫͂͊͊́̎i̷̢͚͓̳̋̀́̓͒̀̈́͋ȧ̷̳̞̓̉̈́̂̃̈͆̚n̸̬̝̟̲̣̤̍ͅt̷̳͙͚̞̀̈̑.̸̡̧̡̘̝̺̦̔̊͌̀͂

A fallen warrior, a shattered shield at his chest, a smile.

Smile.

̴͍̓̈́̆Á̸͇̗̦͌͂̐̌̕ ̵̹͔͉̖̈d̵̛͈̝͙̞̞̯̯̻̭̊̾̀̈̏r̸̛̭̽a̸͚̣̘̱̲̘̝̮̒̈g̷̱͇̱̼̊̔͘̚͜͠ǫ̵̫̗͔̯̼̘̙́̃̊̆̅͌͝͝n̷̨̫͖̘̜̥̟̙̗̲̒́͊̑́̀̚,̶̗͖̱̭̼̔̊̄͋͘ ̴̰͎̜̗͎̈͗́͘w̷̼͂̊̈h̶̨̹̄̑͂̑̈́͆͝͠͝ȉ̵̙͕͙̙͍͕̓̇͊͘͜t̵͈̩̂͊̌͐͌̓̍͐̋͜͜ḛ̶̬̲̹̯͚͙̿,̵̱̮̊́̌̊́̓͋̕͜ ̷̣̳͓̦̣̪̾̽̔t̴͎̹̤̱̱̰̓̈́̈̔͛̂̑̕̕o̷̧̰͓̓̉̉̎̊͋̀͆̋̕w̴͇̤̣̲̺͙͔̽̆̈́͂̕͜ͅę̴̦̭̝̱͉̪̗̼͐̐r̵͎̰̠̒̍́́͜î̶̺̏̓n̸̢̄̌̚ǧ̷̛̬̣̟͕͑̅͑̏͛͐,̶̭̼͙̞͙͋̉͑̕͝ͅ calling to a woman with blazing eyes and a cleaver of black.

Glowing red eyes, merged with the body of a D̷̨̮̞̻̳̩͝r̵͍̗̳̲̾̉̂͆̊͆͜͝a̷̡͕̬̪͑͒̃̋͂̚͝ͅg̶̡͕̞̺̲̹͉͓͉̈́̋͛ͅȏ̴̡̡̼̜̩̺͎̳͋̄o̴̱̊n̸̙̱̍͋̀̌.

B̵̛̠̥͎l̴͛͠ͅo̶̠͔̺͙̎͗̔͆ŏ̸̫̖̩̘͖͆̿d̴̛̥̲̖͓̾̉.

A tower, bright and arcane, a red headed man with a bow at his back. Young.

An au’ra with purple eyes, a miqo’te teen, both hugging her with w̷͉͈͚̖͆̽̏́̈́̒̒̿́͘ͅà̸̜̫̔́͛͋͑͜͠r̵̺͕͇̥͉͖̀̍̃̏̾̈́͋m̸̡̱̒̔ţ̸̛̈́̆́̍͊̉̅ḩ̴̞̱̪͈̫̟̏ ̸̦̹̦̰̲̞̞̄̽a̷̰̬̘̩̞͗̉̾̽͊͜͝ņ̶̢̜͎̺̳͚̯̊̈́̑̒͋ď̸̨̛̤̳͔̣̓͌̄͝͝ ̶̛̜̖̜̙̪̺̣̞̼̊͋̅͜l̸͚̙̋̋̈́̅͒́͘o̷͈͚̪̗̲̜̹̎͐͗̽̿́̓̕͜͝ͅv̴̢͇͓̪̲̝̜̑̈̏̐̉̔́͐͜͝ē̶͓͖̟̱̉̀͒͂̏͐́̋̚,̴̪͔̣͇̥̟͗͐ ̴̧̧̲̼̘̼̟͑͐̄̌͆͘͠͠ẃ̶̳̍̔̉̌́̇̂̈́̽͜ó̷̩̮̏̆̚͜r̴̹̲͈͇̰̘̗̞̝̊͜r̴̢̡̛̻̠̩̖̞̲͔͋̀́̚ͅy̷̢̧̹̱͚͇̳̎,̶̨͉̜̠̦̼͈̲͎̿̂͂͋͋͝ ̸̢̧̙̜͇̖̗͔͍͗͜ŗ̸͋̑́̚͝e̵̛̘̰͙̙͕̹͍͙̣͗͂͂̋̌̒͑̈͐ļ̸͔̘̜̀̈́͐́͜i̵̲̺̪̱̱͋ͅe̵̮̤̳̯͗̂̄͋̾f̷̫̤̗͓̹̅͌̔͆̄͆͘.̸͍̗̺͚̞͍̥̰͆̽͋͛̇̈́

_“̶͖̫̫͎͂̍̑̀Ọ̷̢̤̟̗̆̆ǘ̷̩̥̖̠͙͉͜ͅr̸̻̘̰̥̗͚͚̽̑̈́͐̀͘͝͠͝͝ ̷̩̠̥̭͔̩͇̇ͅƠ̶̢̰̙̱̯̟̣͓͜͜͝r̸̺͎̰͍̘͔̯͚̪̦͐á̴̯̹͔̺͇̑̔̏̂͛c̸̭̃̋͑̓̎̇̌l̷̢̝̺̹̘̒͑́͋̎̔ͅͅę̵̩̯̖͆̇̏͌́͜͠ŝ̸̳̘̪̩̝̮̋̂̄̈͘͠͝ͅ ̴͓̞͇̭͚́̋̈̚̕h̶̡̠̠̪̫͎̝̗̮͕̆̓̍̿á̴̛͕̿͑̍͠v̷̨̢͔͙͍̙̹͍͒͂̌͑̓̄͘͠e̷̡̠̝̣̣̥͊̓̋͛̎̕ ̷͉̤̬̪̜̰͈̘͇̜̌͐̂̑͆͂d̸̞̪̠̠̖̼̒͑͐̿̈́͘͝e̶͕̘̺̮̠͎̖̽ͅí̸͈͗̒̅̽́͘͝g̸̹͔̘̱̫͓͙̃̎̑̄͒̕͘͘͝ń̴͚̖͇̲͇͉̯̕͠e̸̟͖̳̪̠͖̥̥̖͉͐͒̐̍̌̿͗̓͂d̸̘͆̅́́̑̈́̽̚ ̶̲̼̣̖͋̍t̸̨̡̹̠̠̼̞̑̌͑̍̍̈͆h̴̖̰̦͚̮͎̦͌̃̆̊̊̿̇̐̀͜ḙ̶̢̨̢̮̮̟̠̒̑̿̒̃̌̄̈́e̷͎̩̰̗̲͗̏̃͜͝͝ͅ ̶̛̺̩̠͍͆̄̈́̌͑̇̇͗͠a̵̡͍͙̩̗̩͗͂̈́̌͑̚͝ ̷̭̘̭̈̅̄̿͐̚͝ņ̷̭̞͓̻̤͌̂̆̌̂̆̔́̊̕ȁ̸̢̳͔̮̘͉̫͚͊m̵͓̙̞̹̦͈̳͚͊̃̇̾͐̓̆͗̓͝ë̶͓̩̠͓̗͚̠̿̓̆͋̍͘ͅ,̸̨̜̗̊̿̇̔͌͗͌͌͘”̸̨̻̥̼̱͉̳́̀͑̊́͂̂͠Lahabrea continued, “To ascend to thine rank, we shall begin the rite. Emissary, if you would.”_

_The white robed child descended from his pedestal, stepping down to the landing of which the woman now stood upon. From his station, Hades could see the small smile at Elidibus’ lips, the pride, and it, too, fed to his own. _

_As he reached the woman, The Emissary reached for her, beckoning her to bend to his height.The woman blushed, but followed his suit, relinquishing herself of the white mask she’d borne at entry as he, too, removed his red, kneeling down to him. He nodded, bowed, and reached out for her hand. She too nodded, placing it in his upturned palm, and beamed as he pressed a̵̢̭̞̳̣̭̙̫̳͒̋͋̄͛͋̓̚͝ ̴̩̔̌͒̈́̒̍̔͑͝k̶̩̪̆̓͋͠ḭ̶̲͛̍̏̎̊͗̓͊ş̴̟̗͍͎͙̺̻̗̯̆͑̂̉̒̾s̸̨̘͖̮̝̻͕̠͊̉̌̈́͜ ̴̗̭̂̅͆̃̃ͅţ̷̯̼̓͐̓̈́͌̄͜͝ͅŏ̶̢̼̘͕̱̬̰̼̣̒̍̍̚͜ ̸͓̞̞̯͗̿̔͊̈́h̷͙̍͗̇͋͛̊̀͛̕ę̸͕̖̹͑r̶̢͕͓̊̄̑̈͛͘͝ ̴̞͛̃̒͗̂͆͝g̴̙̠̟͓͔̼͑̎̈́̑̾l̷͕͈̬͔̘̰̬͕͔̑̅̿́͊̚ͅo̵̧̥̖̻͙͙͎̘͛̎͜v̴̡͕͖͙͚̙̼̀͒̏́̆̃̐͆é̶͈̑̊̈̌̆̔͒̌d̷̳̅̈́̌̃̈́̓́͌ ̴̜͙͚̬̂͐̓͝k̶̛͇̳̟̞̗̞̦̬̿̿͋̓̄̇̓n̷̥̭͓͔͖̫̞̠͂͆̽̈́͆̇͠͝ȗ̴̩̔͐̏̂̀̈́c̸̼̥̺̫͍̬͉̱̿̿͝k̶̢͎̳̫̜̮̙̬͙̘̎l̴̯̝̭͍̰̋ȩ̷̥͈̹̘̤͎͇̞͑̀̇̽̽̅͘̚͜s̶̡̛̲̹̟̗̗͇͕̠̀͗̽.̵̦̣̫̭̭̓̄͌̽̈͘͝ With another bow, the Emissary turned, replaced his mask, and rose once more to his station. _

_“Emmerololth,” The Speaker gestured to one on the furthest of their arc. The convocation member nodded and descended in turn, performing the same as the Emissary had. A removal of the mask, a showcase of their self, a display of trust, then a gesture of will before returning to post. Emmerololth bowed, the same as Elidibus had before, then rose to place a hand upon the woman’s shoulder. T̶̠̱̜̘̩͉͍͓̥̼͑̓h̵̲͗̆̆̏̍̚͘͝e̷̢̛̹͇͓͕̜̼̤͇̓͂̇́͗̎̀̈́̕ ̴̞̘̼̞̮͈͉̜̯̰̔͋̏̍̈́͘̚g̵̛̘̩̩̥̳̹̭̖̟̊̑͗̒̃̀ị̴̼̲̯̺̺̆̓͊́ŗ̸̲̞̞̟̫̲̯̑̊̆́͂͠l̴̢̰͎͈̫̀̋͌̇̚͝ ̷̞͎̔͋̓̇̂̋s̸̨̰͈̑̉̓͐͠m̵̩͕̟̤͖̣̬̟̻͋̐͆͆̎͐̋͐į̵̡͙̦̋͗̊́͊͊͝ͅl̸̢̛̦͓̑͌e̷̡̮̦̳̤̭̝̦͙̾͌ḍ̵̨̲̝̦̭̩͓̔͗̚ ̵̧̡̫̹̆̈́͂͂̎a̵̛͖̟̰̗͈̣͔̞͔̙̔̀̆͌̍͝s̷̙̹̠̦͖̳͆͒̉̍̾̊̈́̚͝ ̶̡̤͊͂̈́̚ḩ̶̡͍̱̻͈̲͉̳̈́̓͜ę̷̮͈͉̣̽͋̅͊͌̂͠ ̵̛͚͕̹̪͔̠͓̪̫̾̌̆͗̓ͅs̴̡̯̩̜̬̅͋̅̋̎̓͂̕̕͝q̷̨̪̯͕͈̬̞̫͈̈́̈́̑̈́̓͝ͅú̵͙͎̙̍̑̀̉͋̎̓ȇ̸͚̤̭́̉͐̊͐́̔̏̅é̸̖͈͍̳̫̐̑̏̔̍́̚͝ͅz̶̺̖̻̲̯͛̈́͑̊̋̊͠͝ẽ̸͖͋͝d̸̢̛̟̳̠̲̾͑̈́͛̓̊̚, then gave another small bow as their brethren turned and left for their pedestal. _

_The process continued; Loghrif a handshake, Pashtarot a friendly nod, Mitron a touch to the arm, Deudalaphon a hug, Nabriales a caress of the cheek, Halmarut a grasp of the shoulders, Fandaniel a touch of hands, and Igeyorhm a kiss on the forehead. “Emet-Selch,” The Speaker gestured to him, watching skeptically. “If you would.”_

Hades pinched his eyes shut, tears beginning to well in his eyes.

No.

No, n̶̢̬̙͔̟̩͕͓̒̂͋̈̿͊͐͌͘ͅȏ̶̙̤̣͕̎͒̒́̀̊͛̇̀̋̏̚͝͠, ņ̸̖͇̱̳̟͊̋̑͂̽̓̈́͋̈́̌͠͝͠ȏ̸̧̨̦̖͎̪͔̖̭̰̺̅̈́̾̿̒,̵̛̜̘͖ ̸͙̩̻͍̺͎̹̜͖͎̫̣̗͚̋͛͝ñ̵̲̯̤̳̼̑͛͂͊͌̊̆̅͐̚͝ơ̷͇̺̩̱̬̼̥̝͘̚͝͝͝.̸̓͂͒̅̆͝ͅ

B̸̨̢̧͈̤̺̤͍̩͚͚̪̞͓̮͇̗̙̮̥̲͙̌̒͑̏͑̆̔̓͗̂̆͒̈́̆͛̇̍̊͋͜͜͜ͅĺ̵̰̲̘͐́̍̈́̌͐̀̒̋̈́̆̿͘͝o̸̧̨̧̭̱̗͔͈̜̫̠͇̣͔̤̞̗̖̻̩̼̥̖̖̠̓̽̃͑̓̊͌̌̀͑̒͆̂̚͝͠ͅơ̸̧̫͍̙͇͈͉͉̝̻̙̒̓͐̿̍͂͑̌̾͌̀͛̋͑̽̚d̷̰̪͇̠͆̂̇̇̾́̊͆̽͊̓͛͊̉̀̅̀̐̏͝.

A woman, run through with the blade of a Sin Eater, black tears streaming from her eyes.

̷̻͔̦̰͚͓͕̳̼̒́̅͜F̵̘͉̰̰͕̋̇̓͒́͑̈́̓͘l̴̺̳̩̼̰̏͛̀́́͗̇̃̌̇a̷̲̟̟͈̳̹̅̑̈m̶͉̼͍͗̊e̶͖̙̊ṡ̵͇̭̱̬̻̒̑̐̂̎͊̃͜͜͝, a city decaying, screams of innocents, white, shattered masks.

A white auracite, a blaze of color.

S̸̭̩̔̾̇̌̌̿̍͘͝i̴̩̼̤̭̇̆́̀͂̎͝͠l̵̢͇̯͖̼̆̄̊̐̈̚v̵̡͍̜̞͉̜̹̱̖̳̑́̿̓̐͊̏̽̕͝è̵̢͔̤̥̂͘r̴̝̋̍̍̚.̷̖͔̻̳͋̔̀͆́͌̕͝͝

B̴̡̡̧̘̟̮̲̈́́̌͗̌̑̋͠ͅͅl̶̮͛̐͂̓͌̕̕u̵̲̘͖͎̤͚͗͑̈̓́̓͊͋̈̚e̸̱̤̬͓͍̳̓͊̈͑͗̂̃̿̂͊.̵͓̈͌͆ ̴͍̩̇̃̕̚

“NO!”

_Hades swallowed his nerves as he descended the staircase, his fists clenching in anxious, feverous è̴̛͎̬̰̥̯̖͛̌͑̀́̃̿̀x̵͉̗̝̥̹̣͈̲̖̅̐̈́̑́̉͋͋̄c̷̖̣͙̰̊̀̀̂̚ī̸͎̐͋͝t̶͚̱͊̔͗̎͐̎̏́͝ẽ̸̙̳̤̣̖̖̦̇́̎̍̒͆̐͘͝m̵͓͙͚̙̫͇̪͉͋ë̶̡̧͈̖͇̗́̈́͗͊̾͂̀͜͝ͅn̴͉͔͎̗͉̂̅̃ẗ̴̞̬̳̞̦̺́̐̍̓̅̀̂͛͊͝.̴̟͚͖͓̺̯̤͗ The woman’s eyes watched him, him ȧ̶̬͖͙̲̩̺̦̘̳̆̎̃̉̅ṅ̵̳͑̀̂͂d̷̬̩̯͖̤̽͗͗͒̔̃͋̚̕ ̸̧̱̘̪͓̫̻̬̟̊͐̓̓̿̈́͊ͅǫ̵̮̟̘̼͆̎͌̍́͒͘ǹ̶̤̩͈̱̗̰̉̚͜͝ͅl̸̼̳̹͕͗ỹ̸̧̘͙͙̟̠̜̤̳̈́͋͗̂̈́̋ ̵̝̻̣̤̣̏̓̌̆̐̍̿͝h̴̛̛̠̰̤̟̙̠͕͌͆̽̏̄̽̕͘i̷̟͉̗̥̟̘̎m̸̢̫̹͓̲̞̞̱̔̀͆͂̽̄̚͜, as he approached her landing. His heart fluttered, skipping and stalling with his step, his adulation, his l̵̩̩̙͍̝̱̩̮̠̈́͐̈́̄́̂̅͘͠͝ò̸̢̡̘̦̳̤̜͇͍̠́̏̂̋̋̈́̌̆̆v̶̗͎̈̏̀̓̈́̽͒ḙ̶͚̱͇̣͇̝͔̏̔ͅ.̶̡̬͕͖̜̭̜̼̀̉̊͛̐͘ͅShe smiled, radiant, achingly beautiful against the backdrop of their hall, the black of her robes. Brilliant blue eyes locked onto his gold, gleaming, “_ _Emet-Selch,” She bowed as he moved to kneel before her._

“Emet-Selch!”

The chain snapped, twin stakes piercing through either side of the void, unfurling a series of shards above him. They rung, as bells in a tower, splintering his mind into white, piercing agony.

_H̶̳͎͕͆̊͝ȩ̴͚̃̏̃̈́̽̌̃̕͝͠ ̸̰̈́͒́̔̑̒͛͘͜f̷̛͓̰͕̮̩̬̄̊͑͛̽ö̷͇̼̜́̋̈́̇̆̔̃̿͑u̷͍̭͐͛̒̂͗̈́̒̽͠g̸̜̩̋̾̄̈̿͝h̴̨̯͙̻͓̟̔́̌̈̈̎̉̚t̷̠͕̂͜ ̶̡̛̥̋ẗ̷̫̫̗̪̳̄̿͘ͅĥ̸̗̯̪͔͍̼͇̦͎͐̓̈̈͊͜͝ë̴̺̤͙̤͌̉͂͆̐͛̔̉̆ ̴͇̲̞̺͔̮̭͍͇͒͂͘s̵̻͉̳͇̔̋̄̚m̴͇͍̻̺͎̺̑̄̽̅̉͐̇͘i̸̗̖̩̩͈͚̞̗̓̅͊͑l̸̨̠͇͈̜̲̈͗̍̋̕͜͝ễ̴̛̤̳̦̖̞̺̤̒͜ ̶̻̑̂̍̋́͒̇ą̴̧͍̯̬̻̪͎̂̀͊ț̴̠̹̥͙̤̦́̍̄̓́̈́́͌͝ ̴̡͚̥̟̱͛͒̄̀̿̌̔̈h̸̠̄̇̀̆̈́̅̕ḭ̶̢̢̭̙̣̹̜̌̆́̋͜͝s̶̨̨͖͔̘̠̜̃̓͋̿͆̈́́̅̕̚ ̵̢͇̬͇̯̪͔̄͘͝l̶͈͑̀͒ḭ̸̺͙͖͚͎͔̼̾p̶̻̠̭̪͇̦͌̆͛̚͜s̵̰͍̹͙̿̏̊͋̊̃ removing his mask to her with a flourish of his hand. She giggled at his performance, nervous, but the action seemed to release the tension in her hands. He’d give a million lifetimes to witness that musical sound, to have her humor his theatrics, to have her smile, warmth. Hades looked up to her, “May the star guide you upon your path, my dear.” _

_“And may the sun warm you with Light and resolve.” She whispered, flushing._

_The Architect rose and moved to her, taking her face in his hands. She watched him, the color in her cheeks deepening as his thumbs stroked her skin. “̴̘̺̳̩̺̈̆̈Ḯ̶̧̠͙̙̠̑͗͘ ̴̧͍̤̖̖̥͖̟̬̑̀̀̉̀̽̊̒̾͝a̶̝̲̬̎́̾̈̏̊͌̊̓̋m̴̨̟̟͚̻̥͖̲̪͓̓͐̓͛͘̚͝ ̵̫̄͊̑͗͝s̵͉̜̈́̽͗̆̀̿̚õ̵͔͔̠͋̈́̏̈́͑̆̆̊̈́ ̵͙͇͉̈p̵͔̗͛̽̽͂͑̓̆͊́̈ŕ̸̛̰̼̳̗͉̰̹̺̰̾͘ͅo̶̼͉̠͕͑͑͜u̷̡̺͓̫̻̝̽̎͜d̴̘͚̗̞͋̔̀̋̑̊̇ ̴̧̜͉̯͎͕̫̆͜ő̶͎̜̀̈̈́̓͑̆̒́f̸̲͓̻̹̽ ̸̢̛̲̖͕̮̪̥̟̓͗̑̐̕͘̕y̸̛̺̤͗́̐̔̀͛̚ȍ̵͙͇̈́͋̄̂̂̐̕ủ̵̧̮̜̖̤̳̯̎͗̆̎̽.̴̨̢̮͚͎̜͎̠̭̦̄”̴̝̺̟̞̜͙͎͐͗͋͜_

He knew that color.

Blue.

Silver, radiant amongst the sea of shards.

How long had it been? How _long?_

_Gods._

He was right, she was never a reflection of an Amaurotine.

She was never a glimmer, she _was_.

Lost, broken.

She was sundered, her.  
His.  
The hero, she _was._

_Gods._

_May Hell…_

** **

**H̷̜̔͂̀̀̇͌͂͝è̴͕̻̱͑͑͜l̶̟͎̦̬̻͓̫͉͈̋̏̆ͅļ̵͔̙̗̬͙̲̱̽̎̃̇̕..̵̟̼̣̗̳̬͇̹͎͙̒̆͗̆͐̉̊͠͝**

Condemnation.

The ignominy, shame.

Vile.

It was disgusting, revolting.

_“There’s nothing to be proud of,” She smiled, the warmth in her eyes feeding to the adoration in his breast. The woman inclined to his touch, leaning to his hands, his figure._

_“You will be luminous,” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, a crooked smile spread over his beaming, flushed face, “You are our Fourteenth. My Persephone, **my** Azem.”_

_May Hell grant him mercy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so scared writing this chapter, lol. I honestly fought with myself for like 2 days trying to decide if this was what I wanted to happen and well...it happened.
> 
> To kinda of summarize what just unfolded, well...I don't really want to give you guys too much, not yet. Needless to say, it was a mixture of memories, both from Hades, D've, and Emilia, mingled with the aether conjoining and well, the big realization at the end of the chapter. SURPRISE! 
> 
> I know a lot of lore and such points to Halmarult being the WOL's Amaruotine Ancient, but for sake of my own characters personality, zodiac sign, and backstory, I felt the title of Altima would work best for this. I'm sorry if any of you may feel it's wrong to do so, but I haz plans...trust me...plz... ;___;  
Unfortunately, the next few chapters will take me just a little longer to post. I have a giant lecture to give at the end of the month, including some performances and such which, sadly, will take up a lot of the free time I've devoted to being able to write during the weekdays. This is not to say I won't be writing, but the amount of which I can produce day by day may be cut a little short, thus ending with a chapter of the same length but a week or so longer in between the next update. I apologize, but I promise the sauce is coming...> w >
> 
> Also, thank you so so much to all of you who have left kudos and comments so far~ It brings a smile to my face to see all of your encouragement and ideas/thoughts bounced back to me, and really, it's my motivation for continuing this work, lol. You're all awesome potatoes, and I'm so thankful for the support! 
> 
> [I'm also talking to you, D've...>w> ]
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> If you'd like to see a reference of my character, I post artwork of her, D've, and others on Twitter, under the username @MagicaAria


	6. Melancholia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there are scenes of self harm in the selections containing Hades awakenings. If you are sensitive to subjects of this matter, I would recommend skipping that section and continuing. : )

Cesious blue eyes stared back in dismay, glowing.

Hades gripped at his chest, shaking.

Her soul.

It was there, gleaming back at him, blue, silver at its the edges, it’s hue. Oh Gods, it was there. A fragment, isolated, but “I-” His voice shook, throat achingly dry, raw. The sheen was so weak, frail, so much that he almost felt himself mistaking it, the memory, but…

He made to move, but his body doubled back over his heels, sending him crashing to the floor with his back the bearer. That memory was not of his own. Hydaelyn had made well to conceal herself through threads of his mind, memories he held close, but that glimpse of them, of the Convocation, it was not his-not completely.

D’ve and the others stared at him in shock, moving as the Ascian began to back further and further away. “Emet-Selch, explain what’s going on,” The Exarch held his staff at the ready, moving to touch the Warrior’s shaking arm. His face contorted in worried anger, “What did you do to her?!”

“Wait,” Y’shtola held out her hand, staying the mage, “I-” She shook her head, furrowing her brow in confusion, “Her soul, he…I can’t believe I’m saying this-”

Urianger placed a hand on the seer’s shoulder, “The right of it, please, Mistress Matoya.”

Y’shtola winced, “Her soul, it’s flow, it’s…steady.”

Alphinaud looked between he and the Warrior of Light, gasping, “What?”

Ryne rushed up to the hero’s side, taking her hand in her own. She closed her eyes and nodded to Emilia; after a pause, “I…I can see it,” She smiled widely, looking at her group with unmasked joy, “I can see it! Emet-Selch, he stopped it! She’s…she will be okay.”

Hades could feel his chest heaving, hyperventilating.

  
Fools.

  
Absolute fools, the lot of them.

She wasn’t fixed. She had been mended, _temporary._ How could he possibly…in his state, how could he have…

It would worsen, the longer she sat in those tethers, the Light, the stronger they grew. He felt it, knew it. The longer she held, the more they would eat away of her past, her.

Of…of Azem.

The hero’s pinched expression looked up to him sadly, searching. He couldn’t bear it. Her sight, the look, the color, it was too much. Too similar. “E-Emet-Se...selch…h-how?”

The Scions began to turn back to him, realization taking them in whole. “I-I--” Tears were streaming from his eyes before he could stop them. He didn’t have a right to her presence, to witness that hue, that memory. Silhouettes were moving about the room, closing in on him, closer still. “I-I-I-”

Masks, white and innocent, sat watching him from behind the chair of the hero, waiting, looking on hollowly. Those of Amaurot, ghosts, always ghosts, that followed him.

Someone else was speaking, yelling at him, but he couldn’t hear it. The chimes were back, too loud in his ears, gaining in their volume, crashing against the walls of his skull. He felt something in his throat, a cry, a plea, but it was drowned in the metallic, roaring ring. The room was fading, his vision was blurring too fast, white, cracking.

Masks.

Masks were all around him.

.

The Emissary awoke with a gasp, aether thrumming around him. The void had flared in his sleep, repose, responding in turn to the sound of Zodiark’s, his Father’s, howling voice. He flushed his hands over his hooded ears, falling to his knees with a wince. The sound was so furiously loud it could have splintered the aether in his chest, his soul.

Elidibus snarled, opening himself to the passage of the primal’s rage. Zodiark’s will consumed him eagerly, roaring.

A̷͚̔̎̀̕B̴̧̙̱̣͍̠̲̮͍̰̲̘͍͕̄̒̅͋̀͒̎͗̚S̶̢̖̣̥͎̪̖͇̅̄͊̅̔̆̊̌̑͌́̎Ó̶̦̜͉̝̺̋̆L̷̡̡̢̝̬͔͚̟̭̎̓̃́́̒̉̔̒͜U̵̖̣̙̿͂̇̊͂͒͆T̵͙̬̭̱̖͇̲̟͎͐͑͑͒̾͂̌̄̍̂͝Ě̵͚̺̤̺̩̪̥͈̬̲̖ ̶̠̖̼̳̼̻̰͉̫̀͛̋̿͌̓͝ͅF̶̨̜̠͇̃͑̉͐͗̅̀̈́̇̆͛Ò̶̻̫̤̩̮̻͓̹̻͓̺͕̅̂̒͛̂̈́͘O̸̜̩͚͓͍͓͛̄̇̐̒̓̌̏̃L̸̛̺͔̹̪̖̲̖̔̌̈̔̓̌̑͒̕͘͝͠͠ͅS̶͓͈̱̯̽͆

T̷̛̛͓͉̙̘̏͌̿̊͒o̸̯͋̏̑͂̎̐̋̄̔̊̓̇͌͘͝ ̷͚͍̯̤̓́̔͋̓̒͂͘͝h̶̢͕̘͙̞̗͊́̏̔͆͂̀͋̌̋̍͝ͅa̷͙̪̯͉̥͚̰͊̐̉̈́v̴̱̞̖̜̟͚́͑̌̆̏͂͊̀͊̂̊̆̉é̶̡͚̤͇̖͎̈́̅͜ ̷̡͚̻̦̲͙̬̺̪̦͙͈͕͂̓̃͌̍̋͋͋̎̓́͝ẗ̴̢͍̯̞́͛͑͑́ȁ̷̡̛̪͓̎̆̅͗̈́͌̾̽̏̾͆͝k̶̩̟̣̬̱̹͈̓͐͂̈́̊̐͛̈͋̓̓͊̈̂ḙ̴̢͑̈́̉͛͗͛̚͘n̴̡̩̼̺̅̄ ̴̛̲̥̃͛͗̌͠ͅa̶̢̧̺̭̫͕͚͓͖͚͉̹̫̎͒̄̑̀̂̉͗̀͠͠ ̵̛̤̫̟͈͚̹̈̓͋̔̓͊̀̽̑͑̈́̈͝s̸͎̭͎͇̦͇̱̮͚̯̋̐̂̍̍o̴̟̹̤̫̗̻̤̼̫͔̰̞̝̱̊̄͒̋̀̓̂͒̏̎̿̽͘͠ͅń̷̛͙̙͇͎͕̰̑ ̷̧̛̙̱̯̯͇̙̥͈͎͂f̸̟̙̥̞̯͐̓͊́̀͑ȓ̸̨̢͙͒̿̆̅͆̀̽̄̈̐͘͠͠͠ơ̵̢̢̱̦̙͙̫͈̱͓͇͚̋͂̕͜ͅm̴͖̥̖̜̝̰̿́̽̓̒͒̒͐͝_ ̸͓̳̙̤̺͔̳͂̃͗͆͑̏̎̐̀͝M̴̦̖̬͉̰͔͓͎͈̞̥͛̇̌̑̕Ę̶̨̹̰͙̹̭̓͂͐͒̋͑́͘!_?

S̶̗̹̯̩̪͙̣̃̾̊͌h̴̨̧̳̖̱͖̦̹̖̲̝̮̻̉͋͗̍̚͜ͅe̶̡̱̟̬̦̲͖͙̦͓͙̞͇̭̓̉̀͒ͅ ̶̱͍̙̦͓̼̟̾͒͆̅͜s̶͇̬̫͓̯͎̓͆̌́̅̃̄̀̑̍̊̔͝t̷̨̮͓͍͕̣̜̤͓̪̙͙̖̀ȩ̶̖̞̰͎̣̲̼͚̪̩͙͙̳̅́͑ͅp̵̢͙͇̗̅͂͋̃̉̐̂s̴̢̜͖̩̺̳͕̫̺̙͈̒̈́̏́̀̋̽͛͌́̕͘͘͝ ̵̢͉̝̳̰̜̩͇̪̪̞̜̥̗͐t̶̢̡̨͚̝͉̟̜̠̫̖̪͈̜͒̏̎̋͋͊̊̐̔͑̇̚͝ơ̴͍͓̘͇͇̥̓̉͆͋̀͋̑̕ô̸̢̭̼͓̼̩͈͚̲̒̇͒̐̐͒̾͋̄͐̋̌̚ͅ ̴̢̯͚̯̭̳͚̭̭̜͈̣̻͍͎̐̈̀́̄̚f̶͙͑̒͌̃̉͆̆͝a̴̡̛̺̜͓͉̙͍͙͚͇͇̞̒̿̓͋̈́͆̈́̂̏̉̕͜͠r̵̡̢̨̦̝̮̘̳͔̺͎̹̅,̸̡̟̟̩̺̜̥͉͚̯̗̭̭̩̻̃̋͆͊̑̎̅͘͝͝ ̸̯̟̮̳́ē̸̯͕̲̲̱͇̱͈̅͐͑̅͜͝͝ͅͅͅx̷͙̯͍̙̻̠͈͈͕͓̹̲͑̂̑̾̀ͅẗ̴̪̱̖͇̎̀̒̈́ͅe̶͕̹̰̙̯̘͇̣̮͎̪̋ń̷͓̼̱͖̠̲̰̇̇̎̄̾͌̌̽͊d̴̡̹͍̪̯̞̤̲̤̀̚͜ī̶̀̂͒͐̆̎̏̽̀͊̿̄̏͜͝ń̵̢̢̢̩̳͉͚̜͙͔͖̻̰͓̺͐̋̅̓̃̿͠g̸͉̩̗̰̯͔̓ ̶̛̟̹̈́̈́̈̐̂̽̐̎̄̄̀̇̇͝ḩ̷̥̹̦̫̼̼̤̤̠͖̦͇̖͉̀͑͆͛̇͑͊̅̿̚͘e̸̤͖̹̎̄̿́̎̓͘͘r̴͔̱̯͓̹̝͐͗͊͛̑̕͝ ̶̛̬̞̩͈̖͈̟͉̜̖̹͈̐̉̍̀͋̂͆̊̚͜͝w̸͈̭̩̺̞̜̟̞͙̝͍͚̒̊͝r̸̡̢̧͔͙̺̯͓͙̥̻͔͙̎̾͗ė̶̡̧̢̧͕̬͇̘͈̱̘̜̲̉̐̍̍̇̔̊̄̇̈̃̏̕͜͝t̴̲͇̜͕͍͚̖͉̥̟̦̟͌̈́͊ͅḉ̸̳̣̳̱̜̗̣̰̋̓̂̓̈́̅̀͋̓͛̅͒h̵̗̙͚͒̏̀̂̓̿̆̃͗͐̂͝e̷̪̹̩̻̦̗̦̤͖̰̬̟̐d̸̮͈̱̺̖̝̲͋̐̏̋͆̈́ ̷̣̘̮̗̹̙͖͓͓̱̲͔͈͛̈́̓̈́̈́̆̑̾͝w̸̺͈̭̼͇̼̳͉̖̭͉͉̌̀̌̇̚ị̷̟̫̞̩̯̜̲̰̱͇͋̈͊̔͜ͅl̸̡̢͈͍̪͎͓̗̪͓͓͆̑́̈͌̄̚̕͘͜ͅl̵̨͓̠̥̠̼͖̜̈́͘,̸͙̗̩̻̣̳͕͙̳̫̣̑̄̋̄͐̓͆̔͆̕ ̸́̈́̃̑̔̊̉̃͆͂͊͘͠͝…_d̸̥̗͍̀͊̓̽̌̅̃͐̋̊́̍͠ͅi̶̡̮̩͓̘̠̱̽̄s̸̬̟̖̠͈̰̺̘̘̲̻̦̳͂͜g̶̛̜̱͓̣͕̲̰̣̮͋́̈̐̈́͊̃̊͒̓u̴̢̩̻̱͈̥̘̝͔̽̿́̎̈̍̆̽͂͋͗̎̌̊͜͝ͅș̷̩̲̬͉͈͖̘̪̘̣̼̹̿̌͗͌̈́̽͝ͅt̸̘̄͗̀̊̔̕i̶̳̺͓̾͗̽̐̒͆͒͒̊̓̀̄̽̆͜͠n̸̡̡̰̻̘͈̝̖̬͉̳͇̳̰͇̆̀͒̔͋̈́̈̂͆̊ǧ̷̡̜͔̻̝̪̤̟̐̍̌́͜͝_!

G̵͕̫̹̟͕̫̘͔̬̲͓̏͛͊̈́̈́̍̐̌̄̉̒͘͠͝͝ä̷̡̫͉̝̳̻̰̙̮̬̤̜̦̼́́͗͌̕ͅz̸̳̣͖͗͒̓͊̌̋͋e̸̢̍̓̂̅͑̄̍̓̔̆̐̕͘͝ ̴̨̲̤̗̼̜͍̖̯̲̞͐͊̑́̅̇͋̋͝ư̷͚̦̣̦̠̣̰͚͐́͗̕̕p̶̛̱̫̳͒͆ͅo̸͓̽̿͋̓̀̈́̒̓̉͗͘ṇ̶̨̥̹̠͇̖̅͛̉́͊̄̆͒̀̒͝͝ ̷̡̩̤̟͎͐̎̆͋͆͝h̸͙͙̣̯͇̗̪͉̠̒ȩ̵̧̰̼̞̞͍̳̣̜̀̊͜ŗ̴͍̆͐̓̊͆̆̊ ̸̡͕͉̯̻̲̯̫̯̦͍̥̦̘̆̎̓͒͑̈́̇̋̈̎͜w̵̨̢̟̞͈̾̒̒̈̊͊̇͝͝͝͝ǫ̸͚͇͈̌̃̈́̍̾͘r̴̢̡̢̛̺̜̮̈̿̄͊͗͌͗̈́̂̇͛̋k̴̨̧̨̭̦̲̖͒̓́̔̓͘,̷͈̠̞͔͉̉͒ͅ ̴̢̪͇̘͍̮̈́́͒͌̏̌̍́̃͆̈́͝c̵̥̤̻̥̱͔͊̏̑̃̓̋͜͠͝h̵̨̛̥̘͕̳̥͚̭̘̰̻̀̍̈́̽͒͘͝i̷̢̩̲̪̪̳̣͚͖̾͗̂̔̐͐̃́̈́͒̂̑͝͝l̵̙̔d̶̦̦̭̲͒̅́,̶͕̱̯͍͖͕͕̙͎͐̏́̓͑͐̀̀͘ͅ ̶̡̡̫͎͈̮̼͓̻̟̞̺̔̃̓̊͊̈̓̋̀̐̕͘͜͜͝s̵̢̀̍̏̉̑ȍ̷̺̭̼̺͉̭̫̣̟̉̆̈́͆̍͋̈̈́̈̂̓̒͗̌ň̵̹̜̪͍̺̭͐̅͐͠ͅ ̷̢̦̩̦̲̫͖̓͑̿͒̊͛̃̓̄̑ͅơ̵̤̲͇͙̏͐̈́̾̊̈́f̸̢̘̰̼͚̲̥͌̃̔̔͘ ̷̮̞̀̓̇̓͊̒̒̐̀m̶̨̨̘͓͕͖̞̫͇͍̥̺̌̋̾͗̉͊͆͛̍̉̀̈́̓͑̊ị̶̛̰͇͕̤̟̙͚̬̮̖̭̓̈͂͌͂̔̓̎̃͜͠͝n̶̢̡̛̬̤͔̠̜̱̩͇͚̣̥̥͌̈́́͘͘͠͝e̶̥̪͎̤̜̭͐͋,̵̢̧̩̟͓̮͎̰̝̩̰͈̜̙͐̍̋̅́̿̐̽̆͜ ̷̧͖͉̬͖͖̝̩̹͓͂͐́̓͂͂̈́͐́̐̅͋͌l̸̪̩̝̖̐͑͝o̸͙̲̱̟̱̞̘͗̓̾͐ọ̷̯͉̝̼̪̪̗̠̭̍͑̂́͂̏͌̀̅͊̚͘͜͠k̷̭̱͛̄̀̓͐̚͝͠ ̴̛̮͔̫͖̦̟̎͒̅̉̋͛̍͐̔̿͘͝ͅơ̴̢̧̥̯͒͗̿̀̌̈́͛́̎̄͑̊̕n̴͓̘̹̬̹͙͎̺̥̣̝̈́͗̅̃̃̀̊́ț̶̤͎̲̻̟͚̺͎̖̺̀̊͋͒̂̋͜ö̷̧͓͔͍͖̱͓͈̣̮͌̊͋́̈́́̽̄̈́̎̑͝ ̸̻̫̗̘̳͓͕͔͕͑̚t̷̛̲̮͙͙̎͋͂̈̒̈́̏͋̀͂̚̕͠ȟ̷̨̡̛̫͉̼͖ë̵̩̭͍͕̼̭͚̣͉̖͓́̀̇͑ͅ ̶̱͚̫͍̟̤̋̓͛̓̊̍́͑̀͂ş̵̣̝̮̞̲͖͈͗̉̅̽̑̈́̈̐̉̔͘͠͝͝t̷̢̧̢̨̧̬̹̳̝͎̻̝̘̔ͅa̶̰͑̐͆̂͝r̷̰͈͛͘ ̶̗̦̏a̷̧̨̬̫͉̩̥͉͙̯̗̗͕̾̂̊͐̅̍̃̆͂̀̏̚͝͝͝ͅņ̴̆̀͒̓͐̓̅͛͝ͅd̴̢̛̻͓͍̥͕̝̺͍͉̆̒́̈́̃̓͐̚ ̴͚̫͍̦̟͖̯̬͆̆͒̅̔͝ͅw̶̰͖̦̬͓̜͇̋͊̿̒͒̈́̿̔̇̒̑́̄͘͜͝ǐ̶̧̜͓̱͍̗̗̇̀̊̑̿̽̇͆̾̎̓͝͠͠t̶̨̤̼̲̬͇̬̯̹̔̔͜n̶̛͒̈́͒̐̆̂͌̀͋̋̔͜͝ę̷̣̙͖͍̺͔̭̳̣͔̂̆̄͋̒͋̏͊̽̔s̷̢̫̞̼̘̘͚͈̱̔̉̌̇͛͑͜͜ŝ̵̟̥͕͖̘͖͛̔̈́̓̚ͅ ̶̨̢̙̳̳̯̭̖̣̯̜̪͋̆̈́̇̕͜͝ÿ̶̲̰̰͙̪̣͎̗̗̙̭̭̱̜̌͛ǫ̶̙̰̲͔̝̫̜̥͕̘̮̜̈́͂͘͜u̵͎̩̣͙̠̟̻̞̩͚̭̰̾̓̂̃́̂͘͠r̸̹͚̈́̉ ̷̡̗͇̋̉̌̽͗͘̚͝o̷̤͙̮̙̼̱̬͚̩̥̮͇͗̐͂̄̌̃͋̄ͅẁ̷̛͔̲̣̮͉̬̼̺̭͉̜̞̳̲̔̊̒̕̚͠n̴̖̯͈͐̈̈̓̅͠ͅ ̷̡̲̖͍̰̥̰̮͐_m̵̨̥̫̯̳̭͙̘͙̱͘e̸̢̪̫̼̤͖̜̣͋̏̊̀̃͋͘̕d̴̙̺͕͎̈̽͋́̃͝į̸̜̩̹̙̣͍̬̝͖̐̇͐̈́̾͑̏̽̓͑ơ̸̜̎̾̽̎̿̓̈́̇͆̓́̕ç̵̩͔̳̗̦̆̃̍͆̾r̶̨̛̫͓̱̰̮̼̻̦̊̏͑̇͌͒̍̈͌̚͘͘̕͜͝i̵̡̞̥̤̹̭̹͔͒t̵̡͈̲̯͈̦͆̆̽̃̊́̀̎̍̐͝y̶̻̘̘̔̀̾̆̎͛̐͘.̶̨̢̤͓̪̥̗̖̙̖̜͙̗̑̓̀͋̌͐̔̓̇̉́̈́̆̕͜͠_ ̴̛̛̪͖̟͔̬̙̟̀̽̋̌̀̀̓̽̕

Norvrandt.

The Emissary threw out a hand, a glimmering projection of the star appearing before him. He looked on, desperately searching it’s surface, and there.

_There._

Amaranthine aether, just a flicker, a dying flame, but there was no mistake.

His Father’s voice resounded with absolute fury, causing his view of the star to fade, S̸̯̞̻͆̑̂̈́̒̓̌͋͗͝͠͝ͅḩ̷̙̰̰̳̝͇͍̤̼͕̞̾ė̷̘̜̲̗̦̗̬̼̥̰͚̜̗̀̂͋̍̉͆̓́̍̇̑̊̚͘ ̷̛̰̘͓̰̼̰̞̳̓́̏̈͊̂̐̇̇́́͠h̵̯͒̓̌̂̀͜ą̸̨̫̮̮̗̘͔̠͙͔͈͋̀̚t̶̡͇͙̭͉͋̆̓͂̆̓͛̿̂́̑́̀̓͘h̶̩̝̑̏́̏̈́̈́̑͛̆͋́͊̆̍̕ ̷̡͚̖̱̘̖̱͝t̴̻͙͓̖̹͓̼̭̻͇͚̪̬͋̈́̽͌̃̉́́̅͂͌̒̎ä̶̡͈̹̤̝̬̺̫̼́̿̒̓̔̍̕͜k̴̢̨̹̩͗͂̓̿́͋̃͠͝e̸̡̪̭̹̦̦̻̲̻̦̼͎͍͖͊̑̂̊̓̅̓̊͜͝ǹ̸̛͕̞͐͊̓̽̾͝ ̶̰́h̴̛̼̲̣̟͇͚̤̳̊̀̆̈́́̚i̵̧̡͕̝̟͍̞̖̟̰͑̈́̇̈́̇̔̐͑͂͝ͅm̵͚̲̩͒͂͘͠,̸̧̘͔̼̳̗̮̝̦̜͇̻͔̻͗̍̂̊̒̔̓̀̌̓̀͒͜͝ ̴̞͇̀̎͑̎̔͝͝ͅw̷̡͉̬̥̗̱̺̲̜̗͎̳͕͓͆̇̾͗̋̽̒̈́̊̊͐͆̇̓́ȃ̴̧͓̦͎̭̦̼̱̯̲̱͇̼͛̂͜ͅr̴̨̍͒̐͌̀͆̀̓̓͐̿͌͜p̶͖̦̭̫̞̔̈ȩ̶̛̛̣̠͔̩͕̜̞̥̞̙̅̀̓̈́̽̆̀͗̿̀͋͝͝ͅd̷͕̫͉̱͖̃̄͊̏͊͛͒͆͛̽͛̕ ̷̪̺͔̭͍̲͔̥͛̏̓̉̋́̚͠ḥ̷̨̧̙̭̬̜̭̘̫̱͍̞͈̞̐̃͂̌̓̽̓̄̆͘̕i̴̮̳̻̟̓ͅm̸̡͎͓͓͙͕̜̬̬̲͓̗̳͇̉̀̿̂͗͂́́̃̿͠ ̷̡̼̥͇̻̹͇̩͖̫͙̪͂t̸̛̫̺̹̙̜̀̃̂̕̚̕͜ͅo̵̝̝͖̫̱͙̾̎̿̐͌̔̊͒̓̈́̽͒̕͠ ̷̧̨͌̓̾̆̍͑́͆̈͘h̵̨̻̯̠̺̩̳̙̠̼̘͉̬̪̃̋͊͝ȩ̴̢̫̟̗͙̼̤͈̬̼̏́́̃̕͜r̶̪̀̊͂͛̾͂͘ ̴̛̘̮͖̩̺͖̩̩̌̾̐̾̅́̑͒͋̋̔̀͘̚b̸͔͙̰̞͇͒̒̇̑͑̄͐͋̿͝ͅl̷͈̖̹͙̲̞̘̙̰̰͚̼͊̆̆̕ę̵̡̹͓̱̭̯̙̉̐͊̎̆̓͊̎̽̿̌͜͜͠s̵̩̱̣̳̀̑͑͂͜ͅs̶̡̡̢̡̛̛̜̬̬͙̗͙͔̙̈́͂͌̔͗̋̆͘͘͝͝i̷̫͌̑̈́͂̔͗̑̈́̄͐̐͐̓̕n̷̛̼̪̤̗͖͙̟̱̣̾͑̓͑̈́̿̀͘g̸̢̧̯̣͍̮̝͔͇̹̈́̊̓̀͝,̷̢̛̥͔̣̫̠̮̙͙͋̍̾͆́͛̄̅̋̏̚̕ ̶̧̭̳͔͉̣̖̭̝̬̱̭̊̈̾͗̿̈́͌̇͛̊̍̕̕h̸̛̝̖̩̥̿̋̈̈͠͠ͅe̸̡͓̠̲̟̫̮̼̤͎̯̼̾͐͛͑͂̚͝ͅŕ̶͓̣̗̝̏ ̷̳̉͌̀…_Ç̴̡̝̻̗̣̟̙̩̙͓͈̳̑̕h̶̡̡͓̪̬͎̤͊̓̉̒͂̽͒̈́̎̃̚͠͝͝a̴̛͍̺̠͍̯͖̞̼̥̜̼̩͐͆̍̅͌̄̎̇̈́̑̒̂͘͜͝m̵̡̡͈͕̬̙̯͇͕̠̹̾̅͆̽̈̃͘p̸̧̛̦̯̭̭̝͙̲̪͕̰͚̮̃́̓̓̌͗̕̕͝͠͝į̶̜̩͈̩̳̟̺͕͕̦͖̘̼͊͐̓͗̆̿͠ǫ̶̨̹̦͖̰̞͖̖̜̩̱͍͍̩̆̔̂́̈́n̶̛͙͛͒̀̐͂̍̿̈́̅̈́̊͂͝͝.̴̨̡̟̤̬͈̫̫̬̲́̆̽̈́̅̊͗̕ ̴̢̧̭͇̻̜̬̜̭̭̓̉̌̂͘._

He woke with a violent wretch of his stomach.  
_The masks watched, silent_.

Ý̸̡̗̳̲̤̝̮̦̥̩͎̻̿͜ò̴̧̜͚̈́͛́̓̃̈́͆͗̕͝u̷̻̠̘̲̥͙̜̎̆͌̋̃͑͑̈́̕͘͝ ̵̤̻̝̲̤̩̞̪̖̣͔̲̦͈̃͊͋̓͜ẃ̴̧̗̬͕̓̋̽̾ḭ̵̧̛̣̺̝͎̠̿̎̐̀̊̂̾l̴̡̡̙̱̝͂̍̉͛̊̑͒͊̏̒͘l̴̢̡̧̙͉̯̖̹̼͇̞͔̞̊ ̴̢̨̧̛̞̱̳͖̘̯̪̗̮̱̌̔̽̀́̋̊̂̿̆͘͠c̵̻͖̦͚̿̓̓͒͊̈́̈́̋̐͋̏̑̄̕o̸̢̞͇̜̹̦͙̬̖̼͂̏̌̂̅̅̈́͌͐͌̚̕l̴̨̨͙̫͇̭͍̠̲̥̗̓l̴̫̙͇̯͈̉̽̔̄̃͌́̿͗̕̕͘͠͝e̷̲͓̍͂͌́̇̀͂̀c̵̢̧̖̰͔͓͓̬̠̭̻̦͙̜͍͗́̍̐͗t̸̛̗̬̋̌̿̾̏̐͠͠ ̷̢̝̞̤̮̹̱̥̙̯̤̫͗̀͐́͋̔͆́̈́̒̈́̓̉͌͜h̶̡̲̺̻͓͙̅̀̈̎͂̓́͝ͅi̵̞̪̻̪͓̩̖̮̥̦̞̼̘̝̍̉̊m̸̨̪̭̻͔͕̣͖̬̠͖̪̒̈́̚ͅ,̸̢͙̳̟̼͚̭͚̔͊̍͆͛̃̄̇̍̚ ̷̛͔́͆̋́̅̒̀͋͐̿̀͛b̶̨̡͕̗̠͋̈́͛̀͑r̸͓͇̽ͅͅi̶͈̬͓̤̪̱̐̈̂̾́͆̀̀͠ǹ̶̢̖̹͚̳̪̼̀̈́̇͑̐̕̕͝g̷̢͇̦̬̰͉̠̺̙̘̪͚͓̭̭͛͂́͒͊̎͊͆ ̷̤̞̩̹̘̝̊͜h̸͖̖͎͗i̶̺̪͕̬̪̭̽́̑̾͆m̴̨͉̬̟̯͖̖̼̑̓̃ ̵̯͈͕̳̰̝̼͚͈̖̩̿͐͂͑̉̕̕ţ̶͍̩͓̞̳͉̣̤͑̓̉͛o̴̘̟͙̗͈̘̞̪͐̍̿͗͂ͅ ̴̨̨̦͖͙̜̋͂̎̏̆̍m̸̢̯͉̯͖̆͛͂̍̔͋̐̊̇̈́̒ŷ̵̱̋̄͌̒̒̋͑͝͝ ̴̡̟͉̞̰̬͎͉̲͉̌͒c̷̡̬̝̳͚͋̂̀̈̿͊̀͋̈́̑̚͘͘͝͠ą̴͖̭̦̟̼̯͚̓̆̀́͜ų̶̻̱̥̙̖̟͕̎̉ş̸̝̠͙̩̬̹̳̅͝e̸̡̺̩̥̜͕̪̯̟̟̣̿͗͊̉̋͛ ̴̢̬͎͓̻͖̮͊̀̇͐́̇̽̂̈́͘ǒ̸̥̙̼͉̪͑͗͌̆̕n̷̢͔̱̰̺̹̱̫̬̹͙̉̃͌́͊̑́̓̎̋͠͝͝c̸̲̱͐̾̐̆̈͒́̀̎̏͘͠e̸̠̹̳̻̻͍̥̓͂͆́̊̌̏͊͠ͅ ̶̙̝̮̣̩͙͔̹̞̭̋̃̓̈̀̍͘ḿ̷̩̮̜̠̞̭̮̟̘̬̦̬́̀͠o̶̟͔̎̋̋r̴̛͍̣̻̠͚̿̓͠ȩ̴͍̺̫̪̭͉̌͌͛.̶̳͙̦͍̪̩̳̈́͑̇̐̇͜ ̶̡̛̳͙͇̲̟̦̦̙̥̮̍̃̌̾̃̇͒̎͝ͅŨ̸̬̰̣̰̱̾͜ņ̶͎̓͛̾̆̽́̽͛̓̂̐̕d̵̬̝̈́͛͌̀̃͌̽͗̕ͅè̴̛͈̗̪̼̮̩͕̞̹̰͈̰̯̞̯̎̓̋̈́̿̏͆̀̎͂r̸̟̝̼̓̊̓̊̃̆̕͝s̵̤̘̲̏̋̎͋̈́̋́̈́̄́̋ṭ̴̨̡̛̤̖̖̞̗̗̣̮̀̈́̋̍̓̋́̐͋̚a̶̡̪̰̦̘̲̟̯̰͚̟̟͆̓̽̓̆͑̊͗̀̓̀̏̄͝͠n̴̉͋͐͆̐̅̈́̔̔͛̎͑̅͘ͅd̶̡̡̨̨̧̞̹͉̬̹̯͉̹̼͒̀̂̉͋͒̃̍̎͌̿̈́̌͘͜͝ ̶̧̧͍̤̱̱͇͎̰̲̖̤̦̉m̶̛̟̝̬͓̿̆̃̇̎̚͝e̶̢̢̪̘̣̫͓̭̙͉̣͒͛͒̿̆͂̈̽̉͆͜,̷̡̜̰̣͍̞͚̤̆̑̄̃̈̀̽̆̌ ̷̡̧̩̦̼͙̮̲͍̹͇͓̰̱̂̓͜m̷̯̣͉̖̱͖͇̮̬̔͐̋͜y̶̡̫̱̗̗̝̒̃̒̊̔͝ ̵̰̬̬͈͖́́́͆̉̎̋̏͗̑͝͝͝s̸̨̭͙͔̳̥͕̞͉̯̖̠̀ó̸̡̡̝̤̪͉̯͈̣̦͍̜n̶̢̢̲͇̯̜̬͓̠̫̦͚͍̤͂?̵̦́͌̏̆́͆̋͂̊̑̈͗̈́̓͘

Hades jerked his head to his side, coughing violently. Something burned in him, tightening as he did so, coiling about his throat. He clenched his hands over his neck, wheezing in pain. He deserved this. It was right.

He felt his consciousness slipping again, back to the dark, confused and guilty. Shivers danced across his back, scattering down his arms and pebbling his skin as he panted, desperate for air. It felt hideous, weakening.   
A sheen of sweat was coming to the surface in lieu, smattering his hair to his head, his clothes.  
_The masks watched, sorrowful._

.

He heard them speak his name, heard the clatter of a plate, glass.  
All at once, someone was touching him, yelling.

_The masks watched, solemn._

.

Hades clutched at his head, burrowing his nails to his skin. Scratches lined his neck, his chest, fresh and bleeding. He couldn’t stop, the pain served to dull the guilt of his awakening, the dreams that’d begun to plague him.

They worsened in sleep, in the dark.  
He dug deeper, hissing as his fingers raked against the start of his shoulders, the muscles and sinew beneath.

Her smile.

Her laugh.

No.

Deeper, still.

He had to numb it; it was too much, the guilt, shame.

Hell.

Gods, he wanted it.

Send him back to Oblivion, blackness, anywhere but this, here.

A scoff, anger.

Hydaelyn knew.  
He didn’t deserve that kindness.

Nails curved and dug harder, a cry releasing from his lips.

_The masks watched, sympathetic. _

.

He’d awoken from another of the nightmares, another of his memories.

  
Fresh sobs were ripping from his chest, his throat raw from, what he could only assume, were unconscious cries, pleas. Soreness, agony, it covered every ilm of his body, welcoming him back to the land of living, of culpability.  
Could he still move?

Hyperventilating again.

Swimming, dizzy.

Nauseous.

Funnily enough, he couldn’t even recall this one, this nightmare; which had it been, to send him from insentience to wakefulness?

He felt a laugh coming.

Broken.

It was damaged and hollow, weak due to his throat, but it echoed, nonetheless.

He was manic.

He...

No.

No, he was..

He was Hades.

Likened to the Underworld, revered by his colleagues for his stature, his darkness. His affinity for souls, their _color_, was unlike any his generation had found in Amaurot. His bond to those wherein had been stronger than any metal, any excess of time, therefore hers…hers could never be lost to him.

The tears flowed harder as he gasped for air, glaring at the tile beneath him.

Her.

  
Pain.  
Yes, he needed it.

_Deserved_ it. 

To dull, numb.

With a clench of teeth, he launched his fist into the ground. A sickening crack resounded in the room, _“Yes.”_ He rasped as he did it again, harder. The tears were blinding his course, but it met the same, laughing. The pain stopped his thoughts, his images of her soul, her eyes. _“Yes.”_

_The masks watched, solicitous. _

.

Emilia sat at the window of her rooms, watching with placid interest as the cool, morning breeze drifted by her perch at the sill. The air was crisp, fog still rolling upon the ground, hiding from the oncoming light of the sun. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think it well into the Solstice by now, but the miqo’te was unsure as to whether the people of Norvrandt observed seasons as they did on the Source. The Scions had neglected to inform her of the time as she’d begun to regain her footings, but if she had to guess she’d gauge it to be close to the end of the Fourth Umbral Moon; the air felt akin to it, at least.

Leaves from the trees below her were beginning to discolor, purples fading to darkened lavender, burgundy. She supposed she should have expected those hues, as most of the trees here seemed to bloom in a shade of lilac, purple. It was a little unsettling, knowing she’d miss the oranges and golds, reds, of those back home, the Source, Gridania, but she felt there was beauty here too; if you looked past the bloodshed scattered not a month prior.

The foliage littering the mountains had begun to do much the same as that of the Crystarium, the trees, and for that she supposed she was grateful. The daybreaks in which she’d become accustomed to awakening served to give her repose, quiet thought from the Scions, from medics. The view was a distraction, at least, from that of sleep, of her recovery.

Gently, the hero stretched her hands, looking down at her palms. Her arms were still shaky, weak, and to her chagrin, much the same as her. Emilia’s brow furrowed. She despised the lack of control, stability; she needed it, she relished in being strong, being one to provide, for her or her companions. Of all the things, she’d taken up the sword, a cleaver, to ensure she was no longer at the sides healing, safe-she wanted the blood, she wanted to be the shield, needed to be. She was…She was Hydaelyn’s, she would walk into dangers, death-and had-to emerge the other side the taller. The Champion was the pillar of strength, the Champion of grief, of fear, pain.

Emilia could feel the tremor’s worsening, rattling her fingers, her wrists, as stewed in her thoughts, regrets. Hydaelyn still denied her an audience, ignoring her pleas, her nightly rituals of questions. They always hurt, those attempts at a petition, an abundance of her Light she’d surmised, her…weakness, but she tried, nonetheless. She needed answers. Why did the Mother see fit to block her from her blessing, isolate her, when she had so much left to ask, so much left to understand?

The hero couldn’t speak of it with the others, and hadn’t, though she supposed they had theories of her plight, at least, particularly after her admission to Ryne, Emet-Selch. She’d wait a little longer, see what happened before sharing anything else with her charge, with D’ve. Emilia was, is, the Warrior of Light, a child of the Mother-she should be strong enough to take the isolation, figure out why…Why her mind was so broken, her memories. 

The shaking turned to shivers as she glared down at the gardens, the brightening daybreak. Why…did Hydaelyn bring Emet-Selch back? The Mother hadn’t given her child a second thought when her comrades on the Source had fallen; Haurchefant, Ysayle, her first squadron, those knights in Ishgard, the resistance-never once were those prayers forgiven, her pleas heeded. She could remember that much, begging for him to live, for the Mother’s intervention, to free him from…something?

The Warrior of Light sighed as the door to her chamber creaked open, “I see you’re already awake.”

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was, “Good morning, D’ve.”

The ginger haired miqo’te sauntered across the foyer of her room, drinks in hand. With careful step, he approached her place at the window, a spot she’d grown accustomed to sitting in on his visits. She looked improved, at least in the color of her skin, but he still couldn’t help but feel…unsettled. The Scions had mentioned it in previous days, during her check-ins, medical treatments, but they’d ushered him on in assurance. She’d be fine. She was the Warrior of Light, Darkness; Emet-Selch fixed her, her soul was mended, keep on. Don’t fret, they’ll figure it out.

D’ve took a seat beside her, leaning against the frame of the window. He wasn’t used to her looking this way, frail, distant-Emilia had always been the stronger, his mentor, his friend, and now…he couldn’t shake it. The others didn’t see the lifeless blue in her eyes, an open sea-unfocused, recoiled, dark. Her aether was different too, brighter, the blue almost dulled by silver, shinning like metal in its glow. Where it’d been slowed in the infirmary, fractured, now it flowed endlessly, overlapping, weaving in circles, brighter. He doubted she knew the extent of it, they’d made well to keep anyone from telling her too much in regard to her condition, but…He’d have to consult the Ascian. Emet-Selch had recognized something there, during their joining in the Ocular.

With a yawn, the Summoner grinned and pressed a finger into her shoulder, poking her. He’d pay him a visit later. “Good morning, Emilia,” He gestured to the cup in his hands, a glass jar of cold espresso and cream, a favorite of hers. D’ve always found it amusing that she, of all people, despised hot drinks, “Coffee?”

The brown-haired miqo’te looked up to him, smiling weakly. It took her longer than necessary, he noticed, as she extended her hand to take the glass. He watched as she gestured, but stilled as she recoiled, almost too quick for him to notice. She’d been able to grip things just a day ago, lift even-she no longer required the assistance of others to move about, so…had she declined without his notice? D’ve’s brow furrowed as he, instead, placed the cup aside her feet. He had been spending long nights in the library, “How are you feeling this morning?”

Emilia clenched her fist and brought it back to her lap, glaring down at it. “Fine.”

She hadn’t told him, any of them. Emilia had woken for nights now to a scattering of dreams, pictures. They were always fleeting, mixed, as if a kaleidoscope of some fictional novel, a child’s story. To her dismay she could never hear their names, never make out the faces that greeted her within, those who spoke at least. To that end, she never felt threatened by them either, even as the shades towered above her in height. It was odd and should have, had she of been there in person; she was always lost as to her location, appearing in one scene to emerge in another, but the world she was in was beautifully…comfortable.

A gorgeous city, walkways of a polished, unnamable stone, all intricately woven and crafted, embellished. Spires of twisting black rose into the azure sky, its canvas smattered with stars, oils of purple, aqua. As she would walk through the streets, lost, silhouettes would speak at her, bow, their voices akin to singing, melancholy, or carillon. Sometimes she felt she’d arrived in a different part of the dream, a different area, but the shades were always there, welcoming her nonetheless.

It was almost like the Echo, if she had to name what the experiences were like. Fast glances, never making sense, all scattered and confusing—more so when she’d be thrown from them to gasping awake in her bed, clutching her chest in pain. Something felt wrong about them, as familiar and kind as they were—as if she was pulling something out of herself, her head. The longer she felt she stayed in those moments, fragments, the more painful they felt to release when coming conscious.

They’d been coming more frequently, these sets of dreams; sometimes when she was awake, or walking, as if it _was_ the Echo. She’d made well to keep to her window or bed for those reasons, but her hand had just reacted the same. Shaking as it extended to wave at one of the robed silhouette’s, standing off in the distance, but the image had faltered, fading back to her student’s calloused hand and her offered drink.

D’ve stared at her, waiting for further reply. When none came, he cleared his throat, “W-What are your plans for today?”

“You know what I’ll be doing, D’ve.” Her voice came as a snapped response, causing his ears to recoil back. She sighed, a small apology leaving her lips in following—he didn’t know, it was wrong to take out her ire on him.

“I…I thought maybe I could bring a few books for you?” D’ve was twiddling his thumbs over the top of his own cup, a spiced tea, by the smell of it. Guilt colored her chest as she looked at him. He’d obviously been without sleep, “W-Would that help?”

The miqo’te reached out her hand once more, this time placing it atop his head. Surprisingly, she managed to hold it, tremoring as it was, between the space of his now upturned ears. The younger’s eyes flashed back up to her face, “I suppose some reading would do me well.” She smiled softly, “Do find me something short, though. I’ve not the time to finish it if it’s a collection.”

Pointed canines flashed as D’ve beamed, “I can! I’ll see if Urianger has any suggestions when I stop by to see him later. Do…” He turned his head, suddenly aware of the ragged state of his mentor’s hair. Normally, she wore the right of it swept atop her eye in jagged, cropped bangs, the left curled atop her matching shoulder. Now, it stuck in all directions, tangled and matted either to her neck or behind her head. “Can…Can I braid your hair?"

Emilia’s brow turned, her gaze curious, “Is there something wrong with it?”

D’ve swallowed and waved his hand dismissively, nervously, “Ah…no, not necessarily, I just…uhm.”

“I’ve yet to look in a mirror,” She mumbled, gaze turning up to the strands dangling in her face. Truth be told, yes. The hero had glanced in mirrors, albeit, probably as that of a manic would; the things that greeted her were never of her reflection. “But I’m guessing by your response, there _is _something wrong with it.”

“Well,” The younger tilted his head again, blushing, “It could use a brushing, maybe…a wash.”

Emilia sighed and looked up to the ceiling, feigning annoyance. She knew he liked to play with her hair, “Alright. Let’s get to it then, before they send you on another errand.”

.

The Ascian curled in upon himself, uncaring of the pain that tore at his stitches, his back, legs. His vessel was inching closer to death, he could feel it. It was a familiar sensation, the grim penance of cooling limbs, weakening mind, body; he’d felt it so many times, so many lives had he lived to not. The brutal treatment, of his design, was becoming too much for it to bear as well, especially in its state of weakened aether, regeneration failing.

Hades opened his eyes to the room, blurry though they’d be at their inspection. He laid bent on the cot they’d placed him upon, staring, bundled, to the wall adjacent him. The partitions glowed a faint blue, golden veins and machina scattering upon the length of it. Gears emerged from the ground, sealed in the very same crystalized blue, encompassing the machinations that opened the door. It was a wistful idea on the Exarch’s part, moving him here in his weakened state. Without aether, he was as much a Garlean as the vessel he inhabited. It was a laughable circumstance, he supposed, that’d he’d come full circle back to that of the Third Era, his creations. Allag…such a wonderous empire, in its prime.

He clenched his teeth as a shiver took him. At any time would the Scions be returning to his keep, inspecting his state. They’d made attempts at restraining him, trying to keep the Ascian from imposing upon himself further harm, but he’d all but lost the will to even manage it now. The dreams were rampart and flowing freely, awake or asleep, his guilt doing much of the same—pain only served to encourage the worse of each.

Hades could picture it, the glimpse of her soul in his recreated, burning Amaurot, the shade that watched him, spoke to him, calling out for his penance, his understanding. He wanted to laugh at his absurdity. He knew it was her, had preconceptions, but wrote them off as no more than the two’s mere coincidental involvement with the Light and Hydaelyn. He’d looked her in the eye, soul to soul, and had almost banished her from ever being rejoined, shattered her vessel’s keeper, almost created a _Sin Eater out of_…

The Ascian snapped his eyes shut as his thoughts continued, spiraling. It’d been there, the words, at the edges of his mind, but he couldn’t get them…out.  
He tried again.

_HE…had almost made…_

Again, gone.

_He. _

With a clench of teeth, he pushed harder, as if to look within his bindings, his chains.  
There.

It was in his core.  
  
The…aether?

_Was everything, had everything done in his centuries, eons, alive…had everything been of his thought, will?_

It was difficult for him to continue, allow his mind to open freely. Was Hydaelyn interfering with his thoughts? Or… He pressed inwardly again, shuddering at the strength, resistance, he felt in doing so; his body was failing him already.

_If not he, in well placed forethought, performing and carrying out plans, devices, then…what…what had dulled his sight, allowed him to carry out the attempted destruction of…of…Azem…Persephone?_

He felt a wave of nausea edging in his empty, curdled stomach. It was urgent, sudden, causing the Ascian to move closer to the side of his bed. He inched slowly, groaning as he did so, but at least he was able to respect his decency and carry out his retching upon the floor, not himself.

_If not him, then who**. What.**_

Ah.

He grinned as he leaned, emptied, upon the metal support of his cot, sweat running down his inclined brow.

Hades was a fool.

_Temperment._

He spoke well enough of Hydaelyn, her idiotic children, but had grown to be blighted of his own circumstance. He could have laughed. Hadn’t he explained this to the hero, her friends, their history, not a fortnight prior in the same Ocular, no less? Hades knew he’d been, he’d born that knowledge for…eras, lifetimes. It may have been lost to him at the time, but yes, it was there. To summon him, the Father, it had been so; temperament, it was a lofty, forgetful price to pay for saving his people.

He did laugh.

It was him, all along. Edging the eldritch closer, comforting his guilt, his questions, padding over his concerns. Genocide. Eradications of species, generations, stars-it’d been Zodiark. Twisting his actions, dulling the souls, the shards, since…since the Awakening? How many centuries had he served him, blind to the cesious color of her soul; how many…Gods, how many of her reflections had he _witnessed_? Had…  
He felt another wave of nausea take to his clenched stomach.  
In his thrall, had he destroyed any of _her_ fragments?

For the first time, Hades felt…doubt—_doubt_ for his cause, his brethren, their work. Spans, eons had he toiled, killed in the name of the Rejoining. Ah, and yet, she had always been so close to him, so _close_ and… He’d condemned her. Panicked grief was beginning to build again, his need for anesthetizing pain growing, even in weakness, even though it was well past futile. Had he of succeeded, turned her to a Sin Eater, he…he would have destroyed her shards, vanquished her from ever…he would had eradicated her carrier, the bearer of seven, seven of fourteen. With that many, it would have destroyed her soul; she would never, _ever_ have become whole, even in their success, even…even if others were Rejoined.

The Ascian snapped his hand to his face, a stream of blood now spilling from his nose. He glared down at the crimson that’d stained his palm, the crystalline tile, his blouse and cot. Had Elidibus, Lahabrea…Did they remember the price they, the Convocation, paid? No, Elidibus...He...He had already forgotten, long before the fall of his other Brother, sister...

Hades clenched his fist, anger beginning to rile in him. Was he tempered still?

“Prithee, excuse mine interruption,” The tall, clairvoyance elezen stood at the door to his cell, watching him with calculating, bright eyes. A stack of tomes and a loaf of bread sat atop, a flask—of what he could only assume would be water—resting against its heel. “I was bade to come check on thee, though I see I…I may need to fetch thee a medic in my stead.”

The Ascian flinched as the man looked at his hands, his neck. He should be embarrassed at his composure, the tears, the visible, pitiful, signs of distress—but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel shame at his appearance. They’d seen him in worse over the past days; broken hands, clawed skin, screaming—no, he couldn’t find it in himself to care, not when his insides felt decayed, rotten. “There’s no need.” He rasped. Weakly, he tried to wipe the liquids from his face, but the bandages on his hands prevented him from any successful attempt.

Urianger closed the seal behind him and walked over to his bedside, placing the tomes upon the floor. He’d come to read on his watch, it’d seemed, “I know thee is lost within the thralls of something, Emet-Selch, and though I cannot say of the magnitude,” He bent down upon his knee, a look of compassion and pain writ upon his face. The elezen had always seemed the most like those of his brethren—understanding, conniving, but inherently intelligent, observant. “But we would like to offer thee succor. Why, instead, hath thee harmed thy self in such earnest?”

Hades felt his mouth twist into a broken smirk, “Boredom sometimes takes us in different manifestations, Astrologian. Mine just happens to be eccentric.”

“We know there is much thee does not wish to divulge to us, as is expected after our…past exchanges,” Urianger shook his head with a sigh, “But now, upon thy resurrection, I have felt we are of the same cause. We would see Emilia to health, as would you.”

“You think me that willing to cure your hero?” He feigned a scoff, but it came instead as a weak, painful groan, “The lot of you, too naïve in your trust. What if I simply did as I bade to eradicate her, hm? A second attempt at what I should have finished.” The guilt washed over him quickly, a reminder that he had, actually, nearly succeeded, “I almost made your beloved Champion a Sin Eater not a fortnight ago; how do you know I won’t do the same again?”

Urianger reached from within his sidelong pouch and grasped a small, dark cloth, extending it to the Ascian. Hades took it weakly, “If what the others say of thee is true and you are returned to us of the Mother’s will, then I feel wholly of myself that thee does not wish to endue her further harm.” He watched as the Ascian haphazardly wiped at his face, “Thee conceded to assist us in her most pressing moments, after all, warned us of such in the Ocular.”

“A slip of the tongue, rest assured,” He chuckled behind the cloth.

“Mayhap,” The elezen reached and extended the loaf of bread to him now. It was wheat, the top coated in an array of nuts, seeds, and spices; though nauseous, his stomach growled at the prospect of nourishment. “Thou may say words of volatile prospects, but I feel thee understands the weight of her condition. We’ve come to understand, if only a piece of it, what may await her in coming days.”

Ah. Deterioration. So perhaps they had been more observant than he’d previously believed. “Then I trust you and yours have come to mind of a solution, then?”

Urianger shook his head as he placed the food at Hades’ side. Perhaps he’d partake of it, just a taste. “I feel thee knoweth already, but no. Tis why we have sought parlay with thee; though of ill intent, thou hast lived for longer, acquired knowledge in that time. We offer thee what we may in hope of assistance in understanding. For ours, for her.”

“The melodramatic metaphor won’t aid you in your cause,” Hades gestured his gaze down to the loaf, “I’ll not be acting to break bread with you, or your precious Scions.”

Urianger smiled weakly, placing the flask alongside the bread, “And I would expect no less of thee.”

With that, the Astrologian stood and bowed. Hades watched as he left the tomes and continued, removing himself from Ascian’s chamber with another, hopeful, bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [UPDATED] I know it's a little shorter word count than normal, but I wanted to get this chapter out ASAP so I could start on the next, lol. ALSO-ALL chapters, up to this point, have now been COMPLETELY revised to how I want them. This fic is now a STAND ALONE, meaning I'm no longer referencing things that happened in Unrequited Love like I'd previously wanted. With everything that's happening, especially with the re-realization of temperment, etc, I rewrote every portion of this story that's contained references to the previous fiction to make this all it's own. I've also went back and added proper spacing, spelling, grammatical changes, and glitch text to the aforementioned chapters, if you'd like to go back and read before continuing. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the drama-llamas and thoughts here. I wanted Emilia to have a little say in what's been happening, so hopefully both her and D've's stances on some of the previous mentioned scenes hath become the clearer. 
> 
> In regard to Hades speaking on temperment, I truly feel that if one was tempered-as long as he-they would have some sudden realizations and breathability in their thoughts, their actions, once (even a fraction) has been removed. I hope that comes across well here, especially after all of the previous chapter revisions, but we shall continue on with these thoughts (as well as Emilia and D've's) in the following. Also, I loved the last few sentences with Urianger and Hades and I'm glad my sleep deprived brain pulled that out...lol. Breaking Bread ='s Peace but Hades is like the God of the Underworld...so...I felt it ironic. 
> 
> Oh...I also have a random dance RP conversation/story I’ve fleshed out with IRL D’ve, which involves Emilia/Hades and D’ve/Urianger...would you guys maybe like a little sauce to hold you over before it happens here? >w> I’m debating whether to post it or not but...I kinda want to, lol.
> 
> Thank you so so much for the Kudos, Comments, encouragement, and readings. Again, and as ever, they are GREATLY appreciated and I absolutely love reading them~ <3
> 
> If you'd like to see a reference of my character, I post artwork of her, D've, and others on Twitter, under the username @MagicaAria


	7. Shades

The Exarch sighed as he stood within the Ocular, his crystalline hand resting worriedly upon the framework of the tower’s portal gate. It stared back at him, emptily, a low warble resounding and filling their silence with a tense, mechanical hum. What had it looked like, to her, them, as they traversed the rift, arrived on the First?

His hands scraped over the embellished gold, clenching as they made to fall back at his side. If only he had been strong enough in that moment, fast enough within Vauthry’s keep, he could have halted this, these series of events. It was his fault, after all, asking the hero—the Warrior of Light, Darkness—to harbor all of the wardens, hold…hold the burden, hold upon herself the responsibilities, _his _duties.

It made him sick, thinking about how…how he could have asked that of her, seeing what the consequences had now brought to them. What if they couldn’t help her, what if she would be stuck this way; weakened, unable to seek her power, heal, destitute from saturated, ruptured aether? She can no longer communicate with Hydaelyn, after all—it would only be a matter of time before it came to a precipice, a matter of mere weeks at best, if they couldn’t come to a solution. He should have sacrificed the change, ensured that aid to Emilia, the Scions—he still could, if need be, but it wouldn’t be without consequence now, not with the Ascian returned.

The others as well, they’ve been away from their bodies for so long—years, upon this star, but how long had it been for the Source? How much longer did they yet have?

A cough came from behind him, riddling him from his thoughts, “Exarch, excuse my interruption, but you’ve a guest.”

Lyna stood at the foot of his stairs, looking up to him with a salute as their eyes met. She still hadn’t grown used to seeing him without the cowl, but stood ready, “Ah…Thank you,” He cleared his throat as well, “If I may, can you tell me who?”

The Viera nodded, “’Tis the Scion Astrologian, sir.”

G’raha nodded in turn, “Send him in.”

.

She was back again.

Emilia felt herself disorient upon the realization, as if a pebble thrown upon the surface of water. It was always like this, strangely comfortable but dizzying, to settle within the dreams, the…Echos. She looked around, noticing the familiarity of her location—she always arrived here, a city square, she’d come to assume. The backdrop was the same in turn—towering buildings, large windows, and stretching spires, painted upon with shades of immaculate stone, marble, black and gold.

The miqo’te looked up, taking in the glow of the dusty, starry sky, comforted-if only slightly-by the beauty of it. The stars, at least, echoed that of the canvas of the First, the Source—glittering and picturesque, constellations easily recognizable, shining. Yvette would take solace in it, be it she could have stayed with them upon this new star. Her training in Astrology always provided Emilia with a warm sense of companionship—it brought her back to times in the Sea of Clouds, sitting upon plush grass with D’ve alongside her. The trio of them looking up at the sky, the au’ra excitedly relaying to them her newfound love for the stars, their stories, and how they functioned in her study of the cards, her healing magicks. She’d been gone to Eulmore for how long now?

With a set of her step, Emilia tore her gaze away from above and began to walk upon the paths, a…need, unfurling from within her chest, pushing aside her nostalgia. Wherever she had appeared this time, she was in search of something. It hadn’t always been there, the feeling that she had somewhere to be, to hurry to, but this time it was a fever pitch—she didn’t know where it was, or what, but she needed to get to it, and fast.

Shades, tall and unnaturally friendly, waved at her as she began to jog past them, moving aside if too close to that of her preset path. They were in the same places she remembered; a few sitting upon benches, some scattered in conversation, debate almost, the remaining others walking to and fro with purpose. Her body felt lighter, stronger, as she continued to move through the roads, inspecting the scenery, background, as she darted by.

Bright, luminescent trees glittered along each side of her, much in the likeness of the Crystarium. They were doubly as large, purpled in some, green in others, and shining with aether, matching in sheen to that of the lanterns and archways which also adorned her path. She turned a corner, almost tripping in her momentum, and continued on, arriving at the top of the slopped path with heavy, panting breath.

More robbed figures stood at the precipice, turning to her as she emerged. A feeling of unsettling discomfort weighed upon her at their stares, almost sending her back the way she’d come. Something was wrong about their gaze, though undiscernible through their guises, it was…angry, disconcerting. Emilia felt her chest hammering as she looked at them, approaching—whatever she needed, whatever she was searching for, it was past them, she knew it.

These figures wore bright, imposing red masks—a direct opposition to the dainty, pleasant white that she’d seen the other shades adorn. One in particular, among the group of three, seemed to have been taken at her appearance, stepping back in their surprise. Their mask covered the greater portion of their face, two spiked ends descending past the swell of their cheeks, surrounding their lips. The blackened eyes of the mask glared at her, twisted to an expression of permanent anger, furrowed at their brow, the nose flattened and snarling.

Emilia felt something in her mind tug at the sight of it; so familiar, the name, memory, caught just at the tip of her tongue. She could feel her brows knitting, concentrating, as the shade began to regain its composure, the mouth between the spikes twitching, though silent. The remaining two looked upon her as well, seemingly intrigued by their companion’s reaction. Why were they all so familiar?

The left masked figure was adorned upon a shorter body, it’s expression also frozen in angry, snarling rapour. A large, embellished cross stuck to the place of what, she assumed, would be in line with the wielder’s eyes, the skin around it curled and woven in intricate patterns, dainty. The right, taller than the second, held—again—a contemptuous glare, piercing spikes upon the inner and outer of their cheeks encasing their lips. Six contorted black holes looked upon her, the middle housing their eyes, she assumed, with smooth complexion surrounding.

The one originally surprised by her seemed to have reposed themselves and they were now—much to her shock—walking towards her, and quickly at that. Emilia moved back a step, catching glimpses of their mouth moving, frowning. Had they been speaking words, she couldn’t hear them; everything felt muddled, again, swallowed as if covered in cloth, undiscernible. The other two began to walk towards her as well, though they seemed more concerned with the taller, which was swiftly coming within her proximity.

Emilia clenched her fists, trying to speak, but no sound came from her mouth. As if she were sick, devoid of moisture in her mouth—a wheeze came instead. She clutched as her neck, trying to support, rally, through the pain, just enough for her to respond, but--

She gasped as she met with her reflection, the face staring back at her full of manic terror, exhaustion. Emilia clenched her teeth, wheezing as that very same clenching sensation began to take to her chest, spreading from her throat. It felt as if someone was squeezing her lungs from inside her breast, her breath constricted to the point it hurt, stinging her muscles, choking her.

The hero could feel her body shaking again, rebuking against her constant attempts to grab at the visions, hold onto these Echoes. If she concentrated hard enough, sometimes she could move further, see more upon the next visit, but it was becoming harder to do so. When back in her rooms, she could sometimes remember the dreams, if only for a few moments. The fogged, mindless apathy always curtained, just at the edges of her mind, chest, swallowing up the masks, shades, and city into no more than a glimmer. If asked to describe them, the episodes, she doubted she’d have the words to articulate them back—it was more a feeling, an experience, rather than…an entity, scene.

Emilia heaved as she bent over her sink, a pool of water now spilling out from its rim, flooding the wooden floor and her bare, now sodden, feet. She’d been in the process of cleaning her skin when this fragment had caught her, or at least it seemed that way. With a shaky breath, she reached and turned off the faucet, watching as the drain slowly began to recall the abundance of water. Her chest was easing again, unfurling to that of a dull ache—just enough to remind her it was there, though easy enough she could manage to breathe without such strenuous effort.

Gently, she shut her eyes, lowering her face down into the basin. Her skin reveled in the chill, comforting the aetheric heat that blazed beneath the surface, if only slightly. Bent as she was, her knees quivered, weak—her body was still unused to her prolonged efforts of standing, moving, having been bedridden for so long. She clenched her teeth as she felt a wave of hollow, throbbing grief catch in her heart—instinctively, her hands clenched and tremored at the rim of the sink, nails digging into the porcelain. It’d become harder and harder in the past days to fight off the melancholy, the looming depression; being locked away in her rooms, it made her thoughts run rampant, unbidden. In battle, she could press on, dull them, numb them with duty and quests, but…

She was…she so _weak_.

Emilia felt her eyes sting as she laid in the water. Tears pricked at the corners, burning as they bade to spill, mingle in the basin. Who was she to lay within these rooms, recover upon this star, when so many others were suffering in the worlds, the seven others who remained? She was the Warrior of Light, she should be above this fragility, these intrusive thoughts, sadness—she was unworthy to bear those feelings. The hero had no family, no companion, no…normal life to return to; why should she bear any sadness, tiredness, when whole civilizations, empires, worlds, have been wrenched from the hands of those not strong enough to protect it themselves? Emilia—Protector of the Source, Wanderer of the First. She was strong enough, she had enough power to rise up against those evils—it was a duty, and she should be glad to undertake it. She should be…happy.

A sob came as she pushed further into the water—she couldn’t drown, not after being blessed within the Ruby Sea, but if she could have, in that moment, she would have welcomed it. A piteous idea, truly. She should be tougher than this; she’d been without the Mother’s blessing before, she’d been worse off, beaten to the point of barely breathing and bloodied past recognition. Solace should be comforting her, knowing she had this moment of repose—no chanting of hearing, feeling, reliving the pain of those who fell in the name of the Light, no aetheric share of empathy bidden by Hydaelyn. She was, in this moment, all her own, and it…it was worse.

Emilia felt her limbs cool, grievously heavy, limp. Distractions, helping others, that gave her sanity—her work as the Warrior of Light, Darkness, it kept her from these thoughts. Now…now she was living them, become aware, once more, that she was nothing without Hydaelyn. Without that blessing, the Light, she was no more than a derisible, pitifully homeless, memoryless, husk—a waste of space, breath. She had nothing to fight for without those connections, without the knowledge of other’s weakness, their wars, deaths, loss, and tragedy. Sure, she had D’ve, Yvette, the support of Scions, but that was bidden by her, crafted and woven by the Mother’s will, design. Without her prowess, her abilities, she would never have crossed within their paths, never have bidden her struggles upon them, shared in the fights, the blood. Even now she knew—she’d have died in the forest, abandoned from her family, from…everything.

It shouldn’t bother her, it hadn’t before, not for…years, had it been?

Struggling to learn with mages of Gridania, failing in every attempt to read, wield, apply those magicks—she’d been frustrated, but still she kept trying all the same. She didn’t have anything to prove, but the sprites, when she could actually hear them, _feel _them, they gave her repose from her mind, her broken heart. The successes she had, if only rarely, gave her something to move forward for. Friendless, alone, she would still have those colorful souls to console her. 

As she grew, she attempted to take upon herself a charge, a group of like-minded adventurers’, as young and naive as she. The journeys, the companions, they could help her forget her loneliness, even if they only sought her assistance in a fit of desperate need. She’d been so blinded, laughably so. They were weak, not even registered upon the books of Gridania’s Inn as true adventurer’s, but they’d had hope, and they’d thought it was enough. Hope that they could be heroes, saviors. _Hope_ that they could assist an entity as strong as the Immortal Flames, the Scions.

Naïve.

They fell—as should have been expected.  
Unprepared, potionless and with cheap, personally crafted gear—materials stolen and woven in the faith that it would be enough, that it’d get them by until paid for their duty, ‘til they could afford better. So wrong were they, blinded by just that, _hope._

No magic could repair their bodies, no amount of her tears could have brought their souls back, white magicks, conjury, could only do so much. Bandages can’t repair tissue, muscles and metal, fused together by scorching heat—potions couldn’t salve the bones that’d all but melted away, the souls which were reaped from their bodies.

Hydaelyn watched.

Her god, one she didn’t even know she had, watched on as she cried for them, left alone to face the primal, to face Ifrit. She watched on, and she allowed them to fall, allowed herself to come to her, Emilia, once all else had gone, once she had nothing left, no one. Even now she was chosen, and The Scions knew well. Why else would they have hidden their concerns for her affliction, sought secret council from her in the Greatwood, the Crystarium? Warden after Warden, crack after crack blighted, stained upon her soul; because they knew—because only she could.

Emilia rose from the water with a heavy head. Her hair, carefully braided back behind her, clung wetly to her skull, the latter half left untied and dry running back between that of her shoulders. The long, swept pieces that’d clung to her cheeks now stuck twistedly to the skin on her neck, forehead, dripping angrily upon the linen of her top. She ignored it, looking instead to her reflection, the thing staring back at her in the mirror. The gold of her right eye had faded, it’s shade now matching that of what her left had been all along—blue, grey.

D’ve had been the first to bring it up, a conversation as she’d been moved back to her rooms in the Pendants, as she’d become more stable. He’d seemed relieved to mention it, made light of the difference when showing her for himself. Emilia had been shocked at first, but he and the Scions had theories it was due to her aether, oversaturated as Minfilia, Ryne’s, had been. In time, they felt they would fade back into their original hue, unaffected. She’d bid to ignore them for the most part, riddled them off the same as her charge—aether, that was all.

Emilia quickly shut them, turning from the mirror to return to her bed. The more often she looked in the glass, the more she found they left her unsettled, almost angry. They didn’t feel like hers—too sharp, old, knowledgeable—they felt too much like…something else. With a breathy exhale, the hero gathered herself and walked over to the edge of her mattress, looking down at it. Should she attempt another prayer?

She was still weak, more so today than the last—even D’ve had taken notice; maybe a small one would be best? No questions, no pleas, imploring—just a conversation, just a statement. That’d be okay, that’d be enough, just something to let the Mother know she was still her, still bidden to her. That’d be enough.

The hero winced as she lowered to her knees, supporting her descent with the cross of her arms upon the bed. The mattress bowed under her weight, but rose again as she settled, moving instead to clasp her hands together. She rested her face into the side of the bed, forehead down, and brought the conjoinment of her hands above her, as if protecting herself from something meant to fall. As with previous nights, she reached deep within her soul, breathing slowly.

Her chest stung at the effort, but dulled as she began to chant the Mother’s name, repeating it over and over within her head.

.

D’ve took in a breath as he began to wander the halls of the Crystal Tower, retracing his steps from the few days prior. When he’d been on the trail of Emilia, in his state of worry, he’d seemed to have forgotten some of the turns they’d taken to reach the Ascian. The guards, now, had been helpful enough in pointing him in the right direction, though he’d insisted they kept quiet about his presence. Out of fear, he’d assume they would, but he didn’t plan on staying long.

He turned his eye back to the hall. He could see it; Emilia, limping alongside Ryne, Scions and medics walking, chasing, behind her. Every coughing fit brought their voices higher, protests all the more reverent, but she refused, marching on. D’ve should have known, he blamed himself for not being there—he could have calmed her, at least long enough to bring her safely to his cell, he could have explained what’d happened, helped her work through the confusion, the panic.

The miqo'te sighed. Emilia was too stubborn, he knew, his mentor wouldn’t have their excuses, their worry—she had to confirm for herself. Since Haurchefant passed in his arms at the Vault, since her comrade’s deaths, so many of them now, after the rebellion, the wars, she’d become…despondent. Every death she bore witness to, even if she didn’t cry, didn’t react, D've could see a piece of herself chip away with them—less smiles, less laughter—she wasn’t hiding it as well anymore.

He hadn’t been present for her entire venture upon the First, just the last leg, but it would take a novice not to see how ragged she’d become upon her time here. The detachment had strengthened, the look in her eyes, the way she carried herself battle after battle, running her body to its breaking point, _her_ breaking point. D’ve had meant what he said when he’d witnessed Emet-Selch’s return; enemy or no, he was glad Hydaelyn granted her that much. At least one life, one prayer—it meant little, but it was one less person to add to her ledger.

The Summoner came to a halt at the doors of the Ascian’s cell, steadying his breath. The Scions had told him Emet had become unstable after he and Emilia’s exchange in the Ocular, that it was best he would be accompanied if seeing him—seemed he was much like Emilia in that respect; like teacher like student.

A flash of his aether, and the bindings upon the door began to recoil, turning and clicking as it rose up into the ceiling. As it gained purchase within the frame, light flooded in upon the darkened room of the Ascian, brightening it incrementally. The floor began first, swelling and glowing in a sheen of blue, moving to the walls, then ceiling. D’ve took a step inside, shocked to find Emet laying curled upon a solider cot. In truth, the miqo’te was shocked they’d been kind enough to give him that, at least.

As he approached, D’ve could see scratches littering the visible portions of his neck and top of his chest, extending wickedly past his ears, well into his hairline and shoulders. Both of his hands had been bound with thick gauze, almost like mittens, up to the middle of his forearms. Each were folded weakly across the top of his blouse, huddled against his chest. Dull, gold eyes looked up at him, tired and eerily…hollow. “To what cause, pray tell, may I expect this visit, Summoner?” His voice called, equally as haggard as he looked.

D’ve felt himself beginning to boil at the sight of him. His cheeks were gaunt, sunken beneath protruding bones, body in much the same state. He’d been told he wasn’t stable—was this what the Scions meant? The marks looked angry, fresh—it’d only been…what, seven? Eight days? “Who did this to you?”

“Is that why you’ve come, to inquire after my health?” Emet rolled his eyes, “Well, I believe your Astrologian did just that.” His gaze gestured to a stack of books at his side.

“I’m curious,” The miqo’te admitted, tail flicking with impatience, “I doubt that Thancred has been by, so again I’ll ask—who did this to you?”

Hades, again, rolled his eyes, “If that’s all, leave me. I’m in no mood for palaver.”

D’ve continued forward, ears flattening as the door sealed shut behind him, “It’s not…I-I’ve come to talk to you, if you’ll allow me an audience.” He stated. Urianger had been here, looking after him—why hadn’t he mentioned these wounds in the Library? “I know you don’t wish it, but I have some things I…I can only ask you.”

“Intriguing,” The Ascian winced as he made to sit up, but he fell back just as quickly. He was too weak to move anymore, “Though I believe questioning still falls under the category of palaver—unless, of course, the definition changed in my absence.”

“It hasn’t,” The miqo’te crossed his arms, “But I’m choosing to ignore your wishes.”

“Considerate of you.” Hades looked up as the miqo’te reached his bedside, bending and resting upon his knees, fingers grazing absently over the spines of his newly delivered tomes. He hadn’t had time to inspect them himself, or the energy to rather, but they looked like promising reads. One seemed like it discussed theories of cell manipulation in plants, another on medical practices and muscular systems in various races, theories and articles besides.

“I know you have no reason to implore my request,” D’ve’s face took on its true complexion as he spoke, the weariness seeping into his voice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed a full night’s sleep, “I…I am newer to them, and I know that what they do they do to protect themselves, Emilia, but…But I need to know everything, what happened on the First.”

Hades looked over to the Summoner, caught off guard by his admittance. “They? Your Scions?”

The shorter squared his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Interesting that they’d still withhold information from you,” He stated, almost jeering, “Considering you are one of them, are you not?”

“I…am.” D’ve admitted, hesitant. “But I can tell when they…they’re trying to keep things from me. You said it yourself right, you don’t wish to help them?”

Hades set his jaw, “’Tis not in my best interest, as you may realize.”

“As I thought. So you’ve no reason to coat your accounts when I ask,” He stated.

The ancient sighed as he closed his eyes, resigning himself. He still hadn’t been of clear enough mind to work his way through his thoughts, through his course of action. Hades loathed disarray, disorganization—he wanted to think through his strategies, the consequences and steps each would need, each would result. He doubted the Scions had withheld much from this child, he seemed to have had a firm grasp upon who _he_ was, at least, but it would still take quick thinking. How much should he tell him, avoid? “What is your inquiry?”

“I-“ The miqo’te looked down at his hands, deliberating. When he met his gaze once more, he seemed settled, thoughtful, “I want to know what…what you are to Emilia?”

That caught him off guard.

His chest tightened in response, stinging. He was her enabler, willing and coaxing her towards the warden’s, her course. Hades was her enemy, both in blood and name, in every respect—Hydaelyn’s chosen versus Zodiark’s vessel. Was that what he wanted to hear? Or…Or did this child expect something more, something deeper? He watched as he answered, treading carefully, “’Tis a broad topic I feel you are broaching, Summoner. Care to elaborate?”

“I was summoned by the Exarch to help Emilia battle you on that platform,” He started, clenching his fists. Ah, yes. The heroes from beyond the rift. “I…I don’t know much of what’s happened to her while she’s been away from the Source, but when we were bearing steel against you, she…I could hear it, her will, her prayers to Hydaelyn. She kept pleading with you to listen, pleading with the Mother to help you.”

Hades felt a chill settle within his stomach. He remembered it well enough; the tears, the pleas, the miqo’te spoke of. They were muffled at the time, swallowed with his grief, his desperation, Zodiark…his brethren. No mortal could give him solace for their sacrifice; not these shards, not them, but her…The guilt was coming back, stronger, nauseating him. She’d been so close, all this time, all these years—rejoining, serving in her name, her cause.

“She may be many things, but Emilia wouldn’t beg for understanding for just…for just anyone,” D’ve continued. His fingers were shaking, the swell of his brow tightened, “I don’t know what transpired from before, but the others know you as well. They’ve told me a little about you, that you’re an Ascian, that…that you joined us, tricked her.” He set his jaw, “But…but even with what they say, even now, I can tell you’re different from the others. From Lahabrea, Elidibus.”

“And you deign to implore me for your_ Champion’s_ tale?” Hades feigned a chuckle. Of course, he was nothing like them- “Regardless of what you may wish, _little_ hero, I’m still of their ilk. Blood is blood, soul is of soul—no matter the name, I am in every way an Ascian.”

“No longer,” D’ve quipped, “You share in Hydaelyn’s blessing.”

“Your Mother’s intervention does nothing to change my past,” The Ancient released a slow, measured sigh, exasperated. Being reborn in this life wouldn’t wash away his dreams, the memories—another life doesn’t wash away the blood, the deaths, destruction he’d wrought upon others. Others, in the name of his Father, in the name of his people, their sacrifice. “Nor does it change who I am at my core.”

The miqo’te’s ears fell back against his head once more, tail moving slowly, cautiously, “It may not cleanse you of your pervious actions, but her intervention has given you a choice, has it not?”

Hades clenched his teeth, “And what would you know of that, hm?”

D’ve shrugged, unaffected by his pretense of ire, “’Tis why I sought you. I wish to understand.”

After a measure of tense silence, the ancient sighed, resigned. “You wanted to know about your hero, the First, yes?”

The miqo’te nodded, perking up, “All of it—I’d hear as much as you can bring yourself to tell.”

.

She was awake again, wheezing upon her bed, shaking and trembling. Tears streamed from her eyes before she could stop them, flowing over her cheeks and spilling into her hair. In desperation Emilia grasped at herself, pulling her legs into her chest, recoiling, whimpering as she did so. Her nails sunk deeply into the linen of her trousers, crumpling the cloth within a white knuckled grip. She couldn’t do anything, she…she couldn’t touch them.

The shades were burning, dying.  
The city was decomposing, buildings falling upon familiar paths, crashing and demolishing each other as they toppled, shattered. Screaming meteors blazed from the sky, shattering windows and spires, roads, bright purple trees. The beautiful shades, their wonderful voices, ran from her, screaming, crying. So many were crying, the chime-like sounds of their words calling high and panicked, expressions distraught, afraid. They…They were all so afraid.

Emilia felt a sob rip from her throat, her soft cries accompanying, filling the quiet of her room. The welcoming waves from the previous visions were now knelt pleas—a pointing of hands, telling her to turn back, run. She’d tried, she’d been desperate to do something, anything, but it was over. As quickly as her mind had come to open within that world, it shifted into chaos, sadness, and even that couldn’t stay.

Her fists tightened upon her knees, nails pricking against her flesh— “If this is your wretched blessing, Hydaelyn, take it away.” She hissed, muffled between cries. The grief wasn’t hers to rightfully feel, empathize with, but it was so strong, crushing, “If this is how you treat me, a-after…after everything. You plague me with these echoes, these people, dying—then I don’t want it!” Her body shook, “I…Ju…just let me do something…let me help them…let…let me…”

.

D’ve sat in rumination, looking at the Ascian with a mixture of both curiosity and in equal part criticism, judgement. Hades knew, he knew that look of weight, contemplation—he was judging his truth, his accounts. Proper to his word, both spoken and promised, he bid to the Summoner no lies; a half-truth at times or a lapse in the invariable timeline, yes, but no blatant lie, no fabricated story.

He recounted his beginning with the Scions, their distrust and his parlay, his assistance and travel to the Greatwood, the plucking of the miqo’te from the Lifestream. Of course he left out the chapters regarding his retreats to the void, his observations, meetings with Elidibus—many of which he could barely remember, a side-effect of his tempering he was sure. Narrations of their exchange in Kholusia, his kidnapping of the Exarch, where he took him and what the Tempest was like, what…what Amaurot was, where their final battle had unfolded. He was careful in this description, leaving as much as he could out for…for his own sake, but he did manage to recount at least a fraction of it.

“I don’t understand. What would you stand to gain in weighing our worth? Of all the stars, the civilizations left, why judge this one?” The miqo’te had reclined back upon his bottom, hands gathered limply across his folded lap. “Why not the Source?”

Hades wet his lips, wincing at the dryness in his throat. It’d been an age since he’d spoken for so long, “I explained it to you, child, though it may have been lost when I covered the truth of your _God.”_ He paused to swallow, to consider. The miqo’te seemed unfazed at his comment, unlike his charge had been—interesting. “I was assigned a star, as many of my other brethren were in turn. Call it cruel dictation or divine benevolence, but I herald from this fragment’s original reflection—perhaps sentiment would better describe it...But I chose this as my stage.”

“The original…” He asked. “So Amaurot was real? This star is the beginning of the fourteen?”

“Correct,” The ache in his heart felt raw, new. He’d explained his course to the Scions, at least in part, but he had only divulged what they truly needed to know, what they needed to realize the gravity of his creation, of his loss, of…Amaurot. He had fought his brother’s, sister’s, remaining to be the one taken upon the First—insisted so. Elidibus had weighed his choice, but in the end had been pleased with all he had managed to sew following Mitron’s demise. An Unsundered could handle themselves, he'd thought, but...Now…now it was nothing. He had lost the will of the Father, he had been shown the weight of his actions, of…of what the Rejoining could have wrenched from him. He- “This star, hence why it is called the First, was the beginning of your known shards—split by the power of your Mother, to stay the will of Zodiark.”

D’ve looked up to the Ascian. The older had rolled onto his back, leaning into the makeshift pillow behind him with an aura of exhaustion, sadness. Bandaged hands laid palm up upon his blanketed thighs, the scratches that lined his skin now painfully visible, ragged and irritated across his neck, down past his collar. The miqo’te felt sick looking at them—no one had inflicted these upon him, that was self-evident. “Can…Can I ask you one last thing, Emet?”

Hades turned his gaze to him, keeping his head facing forward, “If you must.”

“Why…Why did you do this to yourself?” D’ve gestured sadly to his neck, hands, “Is it because of what happened in the Ocular?”

He shouldn’t divulge his thoughts, he shouldn’t entertain this…this fragment, this mortal, but- “Some actions weigh heavy upon those who become self-aware,” He murmured. Flashes of his past stung heavy in his head—the lands burned, destroyed, at his hand, the blood and cries, human or otherwise. “Some…are best left numbed by physical affliction, however temporary it may be.” And her, the soul. He wouldn’t help the Scions, nor the others for that matter, but if he could provide that reflection with enough relief to allow her longevity, then…then he could manage that much, that could be his compromise, his…_’act of good faith,_’ as the Astrologian had so painfully recounted. “So if what you ask is in reference to my appearance, little hero, then yes, and…that’s all I wish to speak on the matter.”

D’ve’s face lowered once more, twisting in sadness. Emilia had said the same to him before—when she’d drunk herself to a stupor, pushed herself too far in her training. He’d been there, one too many times, to help pick her up off the floor, help her back to her room, “I—”

A sudden click began to sound from behind them. The cogs within the crystalized wall turned, brightening and spinning into that of the adjacent, receding into the floor. Both looked up as the door began to rise, retreating into the framework of the entrance.

Hades watched as, oddly enough, the hero stumbled forward. He knew it was wrong to feel relief to witness her soul once more, the familiarity of it, but he did—Gods, it hurt. So bright, warm, even from the distance, even this far, he could sense its radiance, its…pain. He felt his chest sharpen, ache, as the tumultuous wave of her aether began to reach out through the chain, reach out to…him. The power of it, the warmth, flooded the chamber—even the Summoner seemed to shift under the weight.

As she approached her eyes lit the same as the floor, walls, illuminating the darkness of his chamber in a hue of blue. Her hair had changed since last he’d seen her; the top half was tied in a low braid now tied behind her head, the remaining length left to spill behind her neck and shoulders. The ragged bangs she’d adorned prior were now smoothed, parted to frame each side of her cheeks in long, brown and white sweeps of ombre. “E-Emet-Selch, D’ve?”

He felt something pull at his wound, his stomach, as the chain began rematerialize, dragging across the space between them as she approached, shakily. “Why are you here?” D’ve rose from the floor, walking towards her angrily.

How could Hades even look at her, knowing what lied beneath her fragmentations, the light? Knowing…Knowing what he’d done to them? It was one thing to steel himself, calm his thoughts when left in these rooms—it was another to see it again, another to feel it, especially this close. He could sense his fingers twitching, begging to ball, to give him something to distract himself, something to ebb the pain he felt at the sight of her. “I tried asking for you and a guard told me you’d come to see him,” Her gaze fell upon him, voice soft and weak, “I couldn’t sleep so…I thought I’d come to see you both. How do you fare, Emet?”

“I’m fine, hero.” Hades felt his jaw twitch, his voice strain. “You both may take your leave.”

He watched as her ears twitched, a hesitancy suddenly taking her movements. D’ve stilled alongside him as he, too, took notice. Her eyes seemed to be looking past both of them, off, staring to the wall which arched behind the cot. The ancient followed her gaze, “What’s going on?”

When he looked back to her, her face had lost its color, completely ashen. Her eyes were wide, filled with unshed tears, the skin around darkened and sagging from what he could only assume was sleep deprivation. The limbs of her body had grown completely stiff, expression vacant. D’ve’s mouth had turned into a thin, worried line at the sight, “This happens sometimes,” He sighed, moving to stand behind her. Gently, he took one of the hero’s biceps within each of his hands, “When Hydaelyn uses the Echo, sometimes it makes her…black out, in a sense. It’s how she speaks to her.”

Hades watched as the hero simply stood, streams of tears spilling over her cheeks, pooling and falling at her jaw, chin. Her torso shook, hands balled into tight, quivering fists. The thought of Hydaelyn prying within her mind, stunting her, made him uncomfortable. “She said the Mother had refused her council,” He stated, “Am I to assume this is what that is, her intervention?”

_They were back, the shades. _

_Someone was saying her name, but it was so far away—as if it were the sky, the horizon. Emilia felt the words, her response, generate but it was lost upon the ash filling her throat, the smoke. _

_Her hands jerked to her mouth, covering it. She was choking, gagging—it was disgusting, the smell of burning flesh, cloth, trees. It felt toxic, as if the air was stagnant, dead as much as the scents reflected. As she looked back upon the road, hooded figures began to appear, as if materializing one by one. They were running to her again, screaming, singsong in the sound, terrified in expression. Blood was splattered across their innocent masks, hands reaching, stretching for her. Few seemed to make it across the precipice of the path before falling, lifeless. The ones whom did manage to reach the foot of the road fell in turn, silhouette after silhouette fractured and crumpling brokenly to a pile at her feet, unmoving, unblinking. _

“That’s all I could presume it would be,” The Summoner retorted. He began to lead Emilia forward, stopping at the side of the Ascian’s bed. Hades felt his chest tighten, breath catching as surges of aether pulsed down the chain, stronger now that she had become closer. He could feel it, a throb of sadness, deep, swelling grief building in his stomach, low and weighing heavy. What would the hero be beholding to bring upon such a feeling?

Gently D’ve helped his mentor down to the floor, resting her back against the wall, legs stretched out before her. “I…I don’t know what else it could be, if not Hydaelyn.”

_Hands were on her, touching her shoulders, her arms. _

Emilia felt the fire begin to recede, the visions fade. The bodies were sinking to the floor, giving way to a mixture of blue crystal and golden veins. She breathed, relieved to find the rancid smoke was vaporizing, cleansing to fresh once more. She blinked painfully, shocked to feel wetness in her lashes. Unsteadily, she reached up and pressed a hand to her throat, the other to her eyes, rubbing. They were gone, “Are you okay, Emilia?”

D’ve knelt before her, a clear sense of anxiety riddled upon his face. The Ascian, as well, had moved in his bed, looking over the swell of his shoulder, watching. Emilia looked around, relieved to find the room stable, barren, but she felt dissettled by their stares. “I’m fine.” 

Emet-Selch felt the pulses deaden as she began to lean into the wall, the rawness of their urgency weaken, if only slightly. Her body sagged as it met with the support of the crystal, her eyes drooping in disinterest, exhaustion. He’d been right, the circles under her eyes were clearly from lack of sleep—“Have they been feeding you, Ascian?”

He felt his eyebrow raise at her inquiry, “Me? Your Scions, you mean?”

Emilia looked up to him, blue eyes glowing the same as the crystal. He felt himself shrink at the way her eyes lingered upon his scratches, the gauze wrapped around his hands, “Or guards. The only one who tells me of how you fare has been D’ve, and oft that has come to me asking rather than he telling.”

D’ve scoffed as he took a seat alongside her, crossing his arms, “I tell you whatever you ask, we just don’t want to worry you. You’re supposed to be healing, remember?”

He watched as a small smile spread upon her lips. A thought crossed him; had he ever heard the hero…banter? Upon their journey, or in his accompaniment at least, she’d been relatively stoic, even to her charge. He hadn’t the opportunity to witness her upon the Source, so that…that had truly been how he perceived her. Stoic, cold, curious about him, about the answers he could provide—but _lost_. “I’m fine, though you should heed your own advice.” She tapped one of her outstretched feet upon the younger’s leg, “When was it last that _you _slept, hm?”

A faint blush colored on the Summoner’s cheeks, “I-I’ve slept well enough, thank you.”

“I’m sure,” Emilia turned back to the Ascian—a manicured eyebrow raised inquisitively. “They have been feeding you though, yes?”

Hades could see faint glimmers radiate across her soul; unsteady blues, greens telling of worry, fear, yellows of guilt, a twinge of oranged amusement. The feelings that came with them dulled as they spread through the chain, their tether, but his sight could see them for their true hue, their organic source. He watched as they warmed over the cesious backdrop of…her, spreading and fading as quickly as his eye had managed to catch them. “I’ve been well tended, hero.” He stated, turning from her. “Worry not.”

The blue of her eyes troubled him, more so the longer she seemed to hold his gaze. The quality, the sheen, it was too similar to…Persephone, to Azem. He couldn’t bear it, not with his current realizations, not with knowing what he’d done, and to…whom. What would she think of him, knowing what’d he’d become over these centuries, these decades? “That’s good,” She murmured. He could feel the colors twinging, shifting—anxious.

“Well,” D’ve feigned a stretch, smiling softly to the Ascian as he stood. “As wonderous as our reunion has been, we should probably leave you to rest. Right, Emilia?”

Hades looked back to the hero to see the color, once again, drained from her face. Her eyes still held a margin of focus, but they felt preoccupied, frightened. She was broken from her reverie as the miqo’te knelt to touch her shoulder, “Hm, yes, we can leave.” The weighted feeling of sorrow began to seep across her aether, deep and blackened over the cesious sheen he’d noted prior. Hades felt a frown etch upon his face; what was preoccupying her?

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Emilia rose from the floor and offered the Ascian a slight bow of her head, reaching to take support from the shoulder of her student, “Sleep well, Emet-Selch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(:3」∠)_
> 
> Back to the normal 7-8k word count my friends~ 
> 
> I'm sorry for those who may not relish in the paragraph heavy atmosphere of this chapter. I hope it didn't come across as too off-putting...I promise the next with have some dialogue and drama. This one took quite a bit to write and I'm hesitant to post, but we shall see what happens-I know I say this with most chapters, but I just hope I'm portraying the characters well enough..... _(:""3」∠)_
> 
> I believe I quoted this in the previous chapter, but this work is no longer affiliated with Unrequited Love. For those who joined in from the start, I've went back and edited all of the chapters prior to the last two to change scenes or dialogue/thoughts to be all their own, unaffiliated. I apologize, again, if this may bother anyone but I didn't feel that work reflects the thoughts or scenes I've put to context here-especially Emilia and Hades, and I wanted this fiction to stand alone in it's own universe. I encourage to go back and perhaps skim some of these chapters if you're interested (the first two had some heavy re-editing even if they may not be up to par with where the current chapters are in my writing style, etc). Some glitch effects have also been added to a few memories in the aforementioned chapters as well. 
> 
> Again, thank you so so much for all of the lovely comments (both from those reading and from the the beautifully supportive Emet-Selch Discord <3). You guys keep my hands at the keyboard and help me to gather enough confidence to post as I do, and I appreciate all that you guys do~ Thank you thank you for kudos, reads, and friendship~ 
> 
> If you'd like to see a reference of my character, I post artwork of her, D've, and others on Twitter under the username @MagicaAria


	8. Entreaty

D’ve sighed as he wrapped his arm around Emilia’s waist, brunting her weight as they began to ascend the staircase of the Pendant’s. They’d walked in silence and comfortable as it was, his mind had grown heavy, stretched thin from thoughts, worries. He’d been sure Emet-Selch had left out some of the more important details of their journey, of himself. He tried searching for gaps, for lies, ruminating on them as they walked, but every account he told matched that of what the Scions, Emilia, could remember. Of course there was a change of perspective, a few additions here or there, but he honestly hadn’t expected the Ascian to have been so forthcoming—that in itself was disconcerting. 

Emet-Selch explained that he sought the Scions in the Crystarium after hearing of the deeds of Emilia, after witnessing their beginnings on the First. Her prowess and victories upon the Source had accost him from slumber, the death of Lahabrea being that which brought him into their path, Zodiark’s interest. It disturbed him, knowing that the Ascian had been tangled within their journey well before actually meeting each other, but he supposed that was the way of his people. Observers.

Emet didn’t seem to remember much of the time before their partnership, he and the Scions, but his ignorance was easily feigned—D’ve believed. He told him of Hydaelyn and Zodiark, he told him of the beginnings, of this place called…Amaurot. He explained that it was to be the backdrop of he and Emilia’s final battle, that it was supposed to conceal her transformation to a Sin Eater, allow her a respectful defeat. The Ascian had almost stopped there, exhausted from his recounting, but he continued at D’ve’s behest. His eyes were so sad when he spoke of them, so…_tired. _Twelve, they were all so _tired. _

The Ancient spoke to him of their tempering, of the Ascians, how he and his brothers, sisters, had been swallowed within the Father’s influence—an expense for their sacrifice. He told of their loss, the second giving of souls, the rise of Hydaelyn. It unsettled him, hearing of this being, this…primal, sundering another—equal in strength, splintering the world into stars, reflections. Emet’s words stuck with him; if he, if the Ascians, the beginning people could be tempered, those perfect, immortal beings-was he, Emilia, tempered as well?

“I’m sorry,” The miqo’te turned his gaze down to his mentor, shocked from his reverie. She’d stopped at the entrance to her apartment, staring at the door. Her hand had clenched around his shoulder, the other shaking at her side. Her eyes had squinted in anger, “I’m sorry I came searching for you. I know you’re tired, I know—”

D’ve shook his head and pulled her into him, resting his chin atop her head. She stiffened, ears flickering alongside his cheeks, “You have no reason to apologize, Emilia,” He whispered, squeezing her into a hug, “I promised you I’d come back by, it was my fault for not actually doing so.”

She shook her head but reciprocated his embrace all the same. “I should be stronger than this.”

Her student laughed, “You saved a world of people, a star—that’s no easy feat." He rubbed her shoulder, "You’ve deserved this rest, needed it. This time to recover will simply make you stronger, in the end.” 

“There’s so many others that need our help,” She rasped. Her hands quivered as they grasped at the back of his robes, “How can I rest knowing another star is dying, just like this one was? It’s disgusting—sitting here while they suffer, while I’m too _useless_ to do--”

“It’s _okay_,” The miqo’te turned his head, resting his cheek to the part in her hair, the crest of her braid. “We’ll get through it. You can’t push yourself this far without repose, you know that. Just let us take care of you for a little while.”

Emilia sighed, shakily. They were both quiet for some moments; he knew how much she detested being cared for. “...I don’t like it.”

D’ve smiled, “I know, you never do.” 

.

_“Sorry to have bothered you,” He watched as the hero rose from the floor, offering him a slight bow of her head. The gesture was natural, friendly, but it was…**hurting him** to watch, knowing what turmoil was twisting beneath the surface. His mind, he sees Persephone in the way she looks away, the way her face sets in that saddened contemplation, thinking—the glimmer in her eyes, tired and afraid. _

_She is NOT her. _

_With a shaky hand, she reached to take support from the shoulder of her student, leaving him with that obscured shade—a glimmer caught between herself and what she **was**, “Sleep well, Emet-Selch.”_

Hades blinked wearily, staring up at the crystalline ceiling. He’d managed to sleep, unfazed by echos, memories, but he’d…he’d dreamt of her. Not Persephone, Azem, it was of the Warrior, of her gaze, her departure, mingled with the true aspect of her soul, herself. He felt a groan building as his body began to awaken with him, its soreness, stiffness howling in protest to his breath, his muscles.

It was frivolous to think his thoughts had wrapped around what was concerning her, bothering the hero so, but the sight of it wasn’t leaving him. In his rooms, broken and fragmented, dulled, as she had been, her color still shone of that blue, that silver—beckoning him, _shining_ for him. Something had been wrong, twisted in the color of her soul, staining it. Of course she didn’t know, the way her aether mingled into that wound, the way it responded to his sight, the chain, but regardless, it was…wrong.

Hades clenched his jaw—he’d felt it, the sudden fear, the grief; overpowering, hideous in its suddenness, it’s disgusting weight. She’d remembered something or was beginning to—_she_ used to make the same face, when she was bothered, sad. His mind ached at the memory—she’d looked like that so often in the end, unable to speak with him about her concerns, frightened and struck with that atrocious emptiness.

“I trust thee hath slept well?” Hades felt his chest stutter at the intrusion. He turned his head, allowing it to roll across the length of his pillow. Alongside his cot sat that of the Astrologian, tomes and faded scrolls spread studiously over his lap, a lantern lit by his side. Urianger looked to him, a pair of gold rimmed glasses resting upon his face.

“What hour is it?” He rasped.

Urianger pondered for a moment before responding, “Well past the morning bell, dawning upon the third, if I remember correctly.”

Hades frowned; he’d slept well through another day. “Why are you here?”

“Thou knowest why I am here,” The elezen chuckled, turning back to his reading, “I felt it more comfortable to read upon mine watch in lieu of scrutiny from yon door—‘tis more comfortable, and in all manner less unsettling for the latter.”

“Full thankful am I for your consideration then,” The ancient scoffed coolly, “But if your intent is to still persuade me to your cause, Scholar, I’ll inform you—you waste the effort.”

“Hydaelyn has sought thee to do her bidding,” His pale amber eyes looked back to the Ascian, calm, erudite through the sheen of his lenses. “If the Mother sees fit to raise thee from death, after all thou hast sewn, then there be a greater purpose, intent, for thee. As loathe as thee may be to admit that she seeketh your aid, I feel strongly that she sought thee to…assist the Warrior of Light, in some manner—thus my efforts shall remain.”

They sat in silence as Hades’ chest rose and fell, anger dripping from his visage in waves, rolling and churning beneath his skin. He hadn’t the time to test if he could break the seals upon his aether unaided. In mind of his weakened state, he imagined it would be nearly impossible to conduct that test now. If prompted, he may manage to if he could continue taking the aether from the boy’s summoning’s, but they would expect recompense for such an operation.

Of course channeling it through a conduit was not nearly as taxing as it’d be to undo the bonds himself, and in all manner of the effort, he could do it. Giving in however, yet _again_, would begin the process of his involvement, firmly solidifying that the Scions would never allow him from their sight, his imprisonment. Even so, at best it would take him multiple sessions of reparation, the fractures had grown too numerous, sharp to be left alone. The effort itself would tax him upon each cycle, particularly with the seal that remained upon himself; all this, of course, if he could even stand to behold her aether again.

The realization was now in the open for him to witness, bear; any damage, change, he could do would be done to her in turn, to Persephone. What if he’d misinterpreted that of Hydaelyn’s word? Was he willing to threaten that glimmer of her, a chance of her return, just for the will of a misbegotten Primal, whose word was ambiguous at best? The halls of her soul were so fragmented, tethered—opportunity aside, he was running the risk of her, the hero…_remembering_.

He couldn’t bear with it, if she became aware of her other selves…her past, _their _past. He fought down a wave of nausea, swallowing the lump that’d built in his throat. How would she react, knowing he was…_hers_? Their bond was eternal, bound by soul, self; years and centuries apart could not change or weaken it, morph it—that’s…that’s why it he was in such agony. She was right here, so _close _now. He could touch her, he could hold her and beg for remorse, understanding—and all he could manage was stoic observation. Hades wished the tempering could have remained, if only of modicum of it—the Father’s influence would salve him, make it hurt less to still believe her gone, to still think her swallowed by the Fall. She could never be what she was, never as luminous, enticing, colorful—never again.

Hades flinched at the idea—she was of eight, was she not?  
She’d rejoined with her shards, those wayward souls—did that mean upon reaching the final, she…she would be returned? Persephone could come back, whole, but…would she actually come into being? Or…Would this vessel swallow her memory, encase her?

He felt his chest throb, ache at the idea—she…if she could find them, in theory she _could _be whole, fourteen. He hadn’t considered it before, but if she the hero could manage the journey, then he could still have her back, in whatever form that’d prevail. Surely this was not Hydaelyn’s purpose, but with his aether returned, he could even help search for them. He was no longer blinded by the Father, his sight could find that sheen—no matter how weak, he could, he…

Hades bit down on his lip, fighting the wave of agony, guilt, that’d accompanied his wistfulness. It was not his right to have that hope, as minimal as it could be—she was the Warrior of Light, not her, no. Never her, she never could be, not sundered nor whole. She’d never comprehend the depth of it, the strength of their bond, their actions, past without _being _her. If Persephone didn’t predominate what would become, then it would be useless—his ledger was too deep, dripping, she’d never accept him. 

Urianger turned a page in his text, “I, again, would expect no less of thee to fight it.” Hades swallowed his retort, making to pull himself from the bed. “Be it thee feels well enough, I’ve brought thee food and drink,” Urianger pointed to his side, gesturing to a cloth wrapped selection of rolls and flask atop a leather satchel. The Ascian grunted as he rose, twisting his wrapped hands to lay atop his lap, “I would suggest thee eat—thou hast become frail over the passing days.”

“I’ll be fine,” The smell of warm yeast and nuts wafted from the books, making his mouth water. He shouldn’t need nourishment—didn’t, previously, but he supposed without the flux of his aether this vessel would fade otherwise. Hades looked down, taking in the deterioration of his muscle, the bones that had come to protrude from his chest, shoulders. The gauze had been removed from his torso, leaving him with a ghastly scar upon his front, extending over his stomach, well past the band of his trousers. He flinched at the sight of it—he could almost feel the residue of her aether around it.

Urianger looked up from his book, “Dost thee require assistance? I do not mind.”

Hades scoffed and gestured down to his hands, “When can these accursed things come off?”

“The mages who came by at first bell said within the sennight,” The elezen reached for his glasses, removing them, “There was many a fracture, mind thee.”

The Ascian frowned, “…I’ll take the water.”

With a nod, Urianger placed his spectacles aside and uncapped the flask, bringing it to the Ascian’s face, tipping it back for him. Hades, hesitantly, drank down its contents, gasping in refreshment as the elezen removed it once more, emptied. The ashen taste began to leave his mouth, cooling and coating his throat as he swallowed. Urianger gave him a small smile, “I can fetch thee more?”

Hades wiped the residue from the corners of his lips, “If…if you would.”

The Astrologian removed his reading from his lap, placing it to his side, and rose with the flask. He made to the door, unsheathing the seal upon its machinations, but paused as it rose to its full height. Hades watched after him as the door opened, the white haired Hyur standing upon the other side. “Ah, Thancred. To what do we owe thine presence?”

“We’ve been summoned to the Ocular, the Ascian included.” He snapped, sending the ancient a contemptuous glare. “Now.”

.

The Exarch stood upon the pedestal in the Ocular, watching as the Scions and Ascian alike filtered into the room. As the others took places amongst the ring, he and Emet-Selch met gazes, staring in silent contempt. The golden eyes of the latter challenged him as he took a place against the wall, away from their company, in stony, bold silence. He looked slightly better, moving on his own, though he’d become leaner since the Exarch had seen him last. He was curious to the array of scratches and bruises which lined the length of his neck, collar, but disregarded it as the Ascian crossed his arms, glaring at his observations.

They sat in silence, waiting, Emet and company watching as he shifted down the stairs. Hydaelyn, though G’raha never questioned her upon the Source—he was too young, naïve—still remained ambiguous to him. Emilia fought in her name, D’ve and Yvette beginning in that same likeness—but he was questioning her, the same as the others were beginning to. Why return a paragon, murderer of nations, to that of the living? Wasn’t it of her benevolence to have her Champion battle him, vanquish him to Oblivion? G’raha was too weakened in his captivity in Amaurot, the space between such, to understand what the Ascian had shared with him, as pitiful and sympathetic as some of his stories, his recounting, had been. It made him uneasy, then and now, knowing he was so captivated by the Scions, the Warrior of Light. He was uneasy because now the Ascian was so close to them, watching, plotting—the way he looked at Emilia made his feelings worsen.

“Sorry we’re late,” The party looked up as Alisae and Ryne walked in through the doors, the two harbingers of light following closely behind.

G’raha felt relief wash over him at the sight of the hero; walking with strength, eyes vibrant and alert, their color a bright, vivid blue. He’d been so riddled with worry, unable to leave the tower to check on her and bid D’ve, the Scions, to endure the task in his stead. He could see well enough in the Ocular, but it felt…wrong to spy on her in her apartments. She’d surely be angry with him had she known he had that option, but the thought of it made him think of the Ascian, skulking about in the shadows. He wouldn’t be likened to his ilk—he could be patient, he could wait. Besides, they Scions were adept in notifying him of her improvements, complications. Seeing her in the flesh, however, helped to stay the remainder of his anxiety.

Emilia offered him a small smile as their eyes met, “I bid all of you thanks for arriving so swiftly,” G’raha beamed, “I know we are all well among our own plans for the future, travels and the like, but…I felt it best we convene as quickly as possible. There are a few matters which require our attentions, and while we are all among the Crystarium, I’d like for us to discuss them before moving forward.”

Hades crossed his arms atop his chest, fighting the urge to look at the hero, her soul. As she’d walked inside, it shone like a beacon, the cesious shimmer gleaming just in his peripherals—he needed to focus, steel his mind. He knew they planned to enact another transference as he had done previously, the boy as his conduit, but he’d need to be ready to act, to work over the shards. If she found him unprepared, or if her aether made to overwhelm him, he feared she’d take from his mind rather than dissettle her own. She could…remember and he couldn’t run the risk of what she _could _recollect be it she managed to take hold of his mind.

“The matter at hand, then?” The Hyur gunblade wielder crossed his arms as Ryne and D’ve came to stand beside him.

The Exarch looked to the elezen, “Urianger?”

The Astrologian bowed his head, “As thine Exarch hath explained, our charge hath found ourselves within that of same band, at least for this moment. In that time, we hath begun to question that of our traverse through the rift, preparing for our return to the Source.”

“You mean to say all of us?” Y’shtola questioned. “I thought it neigh impossible without the Exarch making to sacrificing himself?”

“Precisely. Though present in aether we are, our physical forms remain on that of the other star. Which begs to question,” He gestured to the Warrior of Light, “What hath become of us in our absence? You stated our forms hath been placed under the care of mistress Tataru, yes?”

Emilia nodded, “Before I was taken through the rift they removed those of you who fell in the Ghimlyt Dark. Those from then, and others who fell before should be within the care of the remaining Scions in Mor Dhona, Tataru among them.”

“Krile should be there as well,” D’ve interjected, “We summoned her from Eureka to come and oversee your health before I left, ensure you were…well.”

“I don’t know how to feel knowing Krile is watching over my body,” Alphinaud remarked, turning his chin in thought, “Knowing her…”

“We are _thankful_,” Alisae poked a finger into her twin’s rib, glaring, “If not for them, we’d be laying lifeless among the fallen corpses. Or worse, in some of your cases.”

Alphinaud gave a small pout, earning a chuckle from the miqo’te, “Yes, we are thankful.”

Urianger nodded, “Having our physical selves locked to one location hath given me a sense of ease, and indeed thanks are warranted.” The miqo’te’s bowed their heads in acknowledgement, “Our concern begins, however, with that of the length of which our charge hath been without that of our corporal selves.”

Y’shtola’s brow furrowed, “If our very souls were transmitted across the rift, placed upon this star for…” She looked to Thancred, “For years, in some cases, it could mean our vessels are beginning to weaken, fade without the soul to inhabit it, correct?”

“To the long of short of it, yes.” The Exarch nodded in grim avowal.

Hades leaned his head back in contemplation. True, without the aether to flow through their bodies, they’d wither as husks—much in the same fashion as his vessel was. It was a hazy memory now, but he did remember questioning himself as to why the hero seemed so much brighter than that of her companions, prior to his death, of course. Granted, the blessing and rejoining of shards would easily route to be a cause, but the strength with which she glowed, responded, was that of a living, breathing being. He could see it for what it was now, surrounded by her charge and free of the whispering in his mind—naïve as they may be, her companions assumptions were correct. Without return to their physical selves, her comrades would all very well perish. The question of how it was that only the hero and her pupil remained in the flesh perplexed him—how did they manage to arrive whole?

“How would we return?” Alisae considered, “We are here of aether, are we not? Without the physical to traverse the rift, we’d be lost on the way back. Unless I’m misunderstanding the science of it?”

The Exarch met with the eyes of the Warrior of Light, Darkness, taking in the steeled resolve she bore back to him. She’d understood as they began the conversation, resigned to the cause and the suggestions, plea, they’d make to her. G’raha could still very well offer himself as a sacrifice, to reverse his summons, but with the cost, he doubted the hero would ascent to his proposal. It hurt him to meet her gaze, knowing she’d so willingly ascent to his petition. “There are those among us not here of aether, but of the corporeal.” He frowned, “As…apprehensive as I am to make this request—”

Hades jaw clenched as he glared at the red-haired male, “You cannot be proposing what I think you mean to…” The room quietened as they turned to him, shocked by the sudden remark, the venom in his voice. A few of the Scions shifted uncomfortably. “You are suggesting _her? _To go forth in your stead?” The Ascian gestured to the hero. His chest was pounding. They didn’t know what it would do to her, the soul, to embark with those fragmentations, “Was she not crumpled upon this very floor not a fortnight ago? In every manner of the word _dying?” _

“As a cause of yourself,” The Exarch shot back, “We’ve little option left to us, Emet-Selch, and I feel this matter be that of our concern, not yours.”

Hades stepped forward, golden eyes burning, seething in their intensity, “You of all should know the cost of traversing the rift, _Exarch._ Would you all just offer up her up like that, your _hero_? _Champion?”_ He could see her soul glittering, moving towards him. He felt sick again, disgusted by their _constant _need for her, for their woman, to be their savior, “Was this not what all of you did in the first place, having her absorb warden after warden?” His voice was low, gravel upon the air, “I was an observer then, but I meant as I said in the end. You’ve been found wanting if all your meager minds can come to is this. You speak of your concerns for her health, well-being—are you all so incapable that you cannot find a different solution, so _naïve_ to your mistakes?”

“You’re one to truly talk of her _well-being_,” Alisae pushed past her twin, coming to stand before him with rage in equal match to his own, “If you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who did this to her, _Ascian_! You’re the one who made this Star as it is, did you and yours not? Who are you to speak of _her_ **_well-being_**?!”

The Ascian sneered as he towered over her, leaning down to look her in the eye. She stood tall, huffing, challenging, “Watch your tongue, girl.”

“You and yours love to spit nonsense when you all do just the same,” She hissed, “Go ahead. I’ve wanted to wipe that smirk from your face since you showed up in that courtyard.”

“_Stop_,” Emilia snapped.

The room turned upon the steel in her voice, the atmosphere chilling further, sparking in its intensity. Hades wanted to wince as she walked over to him, pushing the red-clad twin behind the safety of her back. “I will not have myself spoken for,” She glared at him. The tension within their chain was palpable, clenching at his chest, “I will do what I must to protect my friends, this star. Exarch,” G’raha nodded to her, “When do you plan for this to take place?”

He scowled. “I summoned you here in hopes it would be as soon as possible. If Emet-Selch can repair but a fraction more of your soul, then it should hold well enough to bring you back to the Source. With the artifact you found, I should manage to return you as I had before.”

Hades felt his heart clench as the hero turned back to him, the heat in her eyes tearing through his resolve as if it was no more than dust. He should have refused them—he was weak seeing her the night before, this close it was so much worse, so much more agonizing, real. The gleaming blue that shone around her soul was mesmerizing, almost beckoning out to him and it _hurt_. He couldn’t refuse her—not in Amaurot, not upon his previous existence, questions or help aside, he never could. “Emet-Selch?”

Had he the strength to clench his hands through that gauze, he’d of dug his nails to his flesh—something, anything to dull his worry, his apprehension at her proposal, their _idiocy_. There were other solutions, but their mortal sense of time, peril, was driving them to irrational solutions, just like…He ground his teeth, setting his jaw—just like their Convocation. If she went to the rift, fractured and broken as she was, is, it could very well render her soul upon the transfer, shattering what was left, scattering her amongst the space between with no hope of repair. He wouldn’t entertain her ideas, not when she was here, not when he could still witness that sheen. He was selfish—guilty for it, but he couldn’t manage to lose it again. “No, hero.”

Emilia’s brow furrowed as she glared up at him, hands clenched at her sides, “You-“

“As loathe as I am to admit,” Thancred sighed in exasperation, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This is all very sudden, is it not?”

Alphinaud nodded, “I believe I speak for the mass when I say this matter should be best mulled over, particularly before jumping to anything too rash.”

“Consideration may be taken,” The Exarch consented, breathing a sigh of relief. His grip upon his staff had nearly numbed the flesh of his good arm, “I did not intend to throw us into disarray, but the complication needed to be brought to the forefront before we continue our work. I…I can still propose another solution.” G’raha smiled weakly, “I, myself, am abhorrent to send our hero as she is. I’m aware of the cost, the complications that could arise—if I were-”

“No, you will not.” Emilia turned her eyes from the Ascian, pointing a finger to the robed miqo’te, “You will not sacrifice yourself to ensure us safe passage. The people of this star, of the Crystarium, need you, G’raha, and I will not bear that loss for them.”

“Emilia.” D’ve moved over to his comrade, placing a hand atop her shoulder.

She flinched and turned to him, seething, “What?”

The fade of the miqo’te ginger-white hair bobbed as he tilted his head, the feathered braids at his neck jingling, “There are other solutions. You and I both know.”

Hades frowned as the grief, hot and acidic, began to color over the cesious sheen he witnessed before him. Black, bubbling sadness, like a storm clouding over a glimmering sky—he could feel it, the tether being so taught, so close—her heart was breaking. “I will not have you go in my place.” Her voice still held resolve, “I will not have you go back to that hell. Not without me. Understand?”

Thancred was scowling behind them, a hand resting atop Ryne’s head. “I’m in mind of Emilia’s decision.” As his companion met his gaze he shook his head, “You cannot go alone, D’ve, not while that battle is still raging with the Alliance. Anything could happen and none of us would be there to aid you.”

D’ve looked to the Exarch, “Would it be possible to send myself and Yvette, then? She’s still in Eulmore, right?” He shrugged, “That’d give me another to accompany me be it something were to go wrong, not that it should.”

“She is,” G’raha’s ears twitched in thought, “It may be harder for the two of you to return since I’ve only the one relic, but you’re both here in the flesh…We can send for her to meet with us, at least. She needs’t be made aware of all that’s transpired regardless.”

“You cannot be serious,” Emilia jerked her shoulder from her student’s grasp, stepping forward in anger, “I won’t have those two go into that war. None of us are aware of what the Empire has done knowing that the Alliance had to retreat. What if Zenos has heard? Would you send _both _of them to their death?!”

“Emilia, please calm down,” Alisae held out a gloved hand, a parlay to her rage. “We can discuss our options before coming to a consensus.”

“Yeah, we can still talk about it,” D’ve stepped in front of the hero, another smile settled upon his face. “You’re worried, but…I just…I want you to know we can handle it. We’ll be sure to stick to the Rising Stones—at least to tell Tataru that everyone is well, see how their vessels fare.”

“I will not let you two go alone,” Emilia snapped, “You won’t convince me that this is a good idea, not when it comes to that _monster_.”

“Zenos won’t be anywhere near that half of Eorzea right now and you know it.” He chuckled.

“You don’t know if he’s left the Ghimlyt Dark,” She scowled, “What if he’s moved to another front, stalking Mor Dohna?”

D’ve shook his head, “You’re worrying too much. That’s an impossibility, not with the force they’re pushing upon the front lines.”

His mentor clenched her fist, “I will not give sway when it comes to your safety, nor Yvette’s.”

“We still have time,” Alphinaud interjected, “As Thancred suggested, we need not jump to conclusions. If we’ve managed yet upon the First, then another day of consideration will do naught in the long-run.”

“Precisely,” Y’shtola added, placing her hands on her hips, “Time is of the essence, yes, but we needs plan our course. Ryne still wishes to embark to the Empty, I’ve yet to return to Siltherbough, we’ve all ends to tie before we can even consider embarking to the Source.”

Urianger nodded in kind, “She speaketh in true. We mean to gather mind and thought to the matters at hand, ‘tis all. Pray forgive the sudden peril that’s befallen the atmosphere of our conversation, mine friend.”

Emilia crossed her arms atop her chest, looking back to the Exarch, “…What more do you wish to bring to our attention?”

G’raha’s smile faltered as he met with her venomous gaze, “We can wait to discuss the remainder once we come to an agreement on who may traverse to the Source.” He held out a hand as she meant to interrupt him, “The more important matter is that of your aether, my friend. Let us make reparations on that front before moving forward.”

Hades scowled, “I take it that’s my cue to contribute once more to our conversation?”

“We’ve yet to come to a solution aside from that of thine aether imbuement,” Urianger commented, “But indeed, we had hoped the latter half of our discussion could liken to that subject.”

“Well then,” The Ascian looked down to the Warrior of Light, steeling himself to her gaze, “Shall we begin, hero?”

.

Emilia frowned as she watched Emet-Selch take himself from D’ve’s arm, a swelter of amaranthine aether coloring the space between his mangled hand and the miqo’te’s tattooed skin. D’ve bid her a smile as the shade of Bahamut began to fade back into his tome, a cry emanating from the primal as it dispersed between them. As she looked up, the Ascian’s golden eyes locked upon her, his gaze unsettling, heavy with exhaustion, “Are you alright?” She asked, looking back to the miqo’te at her side.

“Y-yeah,” D’ve nodded, panting, “D-Did it work?”

Emet-Selch winced as he leaned away, breathing as heavily as the Summoner. The linen of his dark blouse clung to his chest, dripping with moisture. “Yes.”

“I must ask…Dost the channel from D’ve’s aether serve as a conduit to thine own?” Urianger inquired, coming to stand behind them.

“In a sense,” The ancient responded. She could see the tremor in his fingers, quaking around the blackened, bruised skin of his hand. The other they’d kept wrapped by his left, but his right was any indication of the damage, she was sure it looked just as awful. The bones were obviously broken, the skin scabbed from harsh impacts upon his knuckles. He was kept in solitary confinement among the tower last she had been told, witnessed—how was he so hurt? “Utilizing the affinity of his summon, I can channel the primal’s energy forward and into my aether. Though it’s weakened compared to what I…should be able to imbue, it acts well enough for this purpose.” Emet grunted as he shifted towards her, holding out his arm with the support of his left forearm. “In other words, I’m giving your hero what aether I manage to restore to myself.”

Emilia bit her lip as he turned back to her, motioning for her to extend her hand. She consented, gingerly laying her hand atop his open palm. She hovered over the skin in fear of hurting him, “So you’re cycling the energy back directly,” Y’shtola stated, crossing her arms. “That would explain why I can’t sense it once it enters you, ‘tis not enough to actually register within your system, so…why bother? This shouldn’t be of benefit to you, should it?”

“It benefits me well enough. My vessel lives because of it, does it not?” Hades quipped, turned back to the Warrior of Light, “I do need to make contact, hero, as distasteful as it may be for you.”

The miqo’te warrior grimaced as she lowered her hand fully atop his palm, mindful of the way he hissed and flinched as she did so. “I’m…harming you. There should be another way in which to do this,” Emilia stated, recoiling slightly, “Your hands are not fully healed.”

“I’m fine,” His fingers shook as they brushed against the inside of her wrist, coaxing her hand back down to his. “Just concentrate on your aether. You’ll need to consent, again, and…try your best to keep it at bay as I work.”

Emilia hesitated, but nodded as she closed her eyes.

Hades took in a breath as he retreated back within his core, relieved by the pool of aether that rose in turn to greet him. The seer was correct, this small amount of energy wouldn’t be enough to actually restore any of his main storages—but if he’d managed to snap through another series of seals, hers or his own, then it was well enough. He was somewhat grateful, however; the memories that accompanied the chains did serve to somewhat dull the intensity of the hero’s contact. He didn’t expect to relish so much in it, mangled and numb as his hands were, but he could still feel a modicum of her contact. Cesious, silver and blue, glimmering in worry, apprehension, concern for his well-being then relief, just slightly, as she had laid her hand over his. The hope it gave him was disgusting, volatile, and entirely undeserved—without him, he wouldn’t have had to undertake this reworking of her soul in the first place.

His heart stuttered as he felt a tug of quintessence reach out to him, welcoming him within the halls of her soul once more. Hades trudged himself forward through their connection, emerging within the broken, collapsed pathways of her aethereal networks.

_She was back, wandering through the streets of that city. It was somewhere, that place she could feel herself searching for, but it was closer now than before. The spires, buildings, trees, were whole—towering and beautiful, gleaming fairly amongst the backdrop of a star filled sky. She tried to look at it as she ran, relieved to see shades unharmed and curious, chattering and moving about the streets. As she passed, the red masked shades emerged at the top of the street. Though they’d been confrontational before, they came to now her with greetings, chattering away in a language she couldn’t understand or respond with as they followed behind her._

Hades took in a steadying breath as he stepped across the broken floor, furrowing his brow as the gold began to fade, giving way to fragmentations, fissures among the wall, the ground. The aesthetic of her pathways had changed drastically from his previous encounter, and the depth of it was, in every manner of the word, disturbing. The hero shouldn’t have memories of Lahabrea, Nabriales, or Igeyorhm this close to the surface of her soul; the masks designs were hers, yes, from the Source, but she shouldn't see them in Amaurot, in their convocation robes no less.

The pathways had grown narrower than before, overlapping and twisting amongst a series of dead ends or sealed doors, collapsed in many. There was something in all of them, however. Something encouraging, echoing along the halls, like bells. It was lost in the distance, muffled and faint in its echo, but he could hear glimmers of it all the same. It was…familiar…his.

_A sultry swell of melody greeted her as she began to ascend one of the large, magnificently broad staircases. This was a familiar building, someplace she felt she…knew, frequented often, but she couldn’t remember the name. The music…It swung in its pattern, building and bright, ascending with a collection of colorful seventh chords into that of a minimalist, pointillistic chorus. _

_She stopped at the doors to listen, taking in its rich warmth, as the others went forward through the doors. There was the ting of a set, drums? Yes. That was what they were called, right? She could remember. There were brushes over elegant cymbals, snare, feverently in pulse with the ring of a grand piano, it’s keys, hammers, pedals. Crescendos of trills, elegant embellishments, came second, coloring the melodic idea in a delicate, fluorescent sheen of color. Emilia sighed—somewhere she could hear strings humming just beneath the drums, piano, and bass. Their depth supported the return of the chorus upon each round, satirized by what she felt was the scratch of a…record?_

Hades froze.

He recognized that melody.

His love, his hope.

Elidibus, Hythlodaeus—Gods, they’d helped him compose it.

The Ancient breathed in, listening to the ring of it, so clear and beautiful in her mind. His hands ached, remembering the tireless hours he’d spent in study, composition, writing and toiling at the piano. He’d thought it a waste of time, effort, when mind, pen and parchment had served him well enough, but the Emissary had insisted he learn to perform it. Writing and weaving were two different skillsets, Elidibus had explained, hearing in the mind and feeling with the physical, the soul, brought forth a different effort, a different need. Counterpoint, diatonic harmony, dabbling in post-tonal theory, serialism—he’d been so enamored in the process, seeking his musically inclined charge to test his newest ideas. Of course Elidibus had always indulged him, offering him scores of his own to analyze, research, but ultimately their preference for genre had delineated from each other in the end; jazz versus baroque, contemporary versus romantic, classical.

Hades could_ feel_ the colors the melody evoked of his memory.

He’d been so desperate to appeal to her, lost for words at every attempt of conversation, debate. Persephone had never, would never, come outright and deny his petitions of friendship, but he could tell he’d never ensnared enough of her interest to gain her favor. She was so intelligent, wistful—her personality bubbled and reached out to so many at a surface level, him included, but none were actually…close to her. Persephone had interests, dabbled in many subjects at the Akademia, but she’d been so fascinated by the arts, he remembered—theatre, painting, sculpture, _music_.

Hythlodaeus had been the first to tell him, after noticing how…shamefully _desperate_, he’d become in buying for her attentions. It had affected his mood, he remembered, her beauty was interfering with his work, her voice and laughter seeping into the structure of his creations. Truly, thinking back on it, his comrade was perhaps the sole reason he continued in seeking her out, having known her longer than himself. Hyth had told him she was very much one who wouldn’t take notice to such things, romance or friendship besides, she was just…different, peculiar. Her love for the liberal arts, however, oh it solidified every desire he could of ever had for her mind, her intelligence. Looking at pieces of art, listening to performances, the cesious sheen of her aether would _glisten_. Gods she could shine brighter than any metal, gleam fairer than any light—a beacon, one he could only watch in rapture, awe.

Hades had hardened his course after witnessing it, feeling the warmth of it. He’d make her something as lovely, something as elegant, timeless, as herself—something to reflect the resonance of silver, something to sooth the melancholy of blue that made Persephone…_Persephone_.

“_This doesn’t work,” He snapped, throwing his sketches upon the marble floor. The shards of compositions scattered and spread around him, laying dejectedly about his bench. Hades ran his weary, tired hands through the length of his hair, resting his head defeatedly upon the rack of the piano. “How am I supposed to explain her with **just **this?”_

_Hyth shook his head, chuckling, “You’re trying too hard**,** Hades. No woman wants her soul laid out for all to bare; you have to have…finesse about it.”_

_The white-haired man looked up from his bangs, casting his friend a dangerous, golden glare. “Are you implying my compositions are…**barbaric**?”_

_“He’s implying that you cannot capture her soul in writing,” Elidibus sighed as he leaned back in his armchair, looking to him from around the blue-haired man’s silhouette. “You could, of course, but do you honestly think she’d find something that forward… enticing? ‘Tis no different than your attempts at conversation, and we all know how well that has fared.”_

Hades felt his cheeks darken at the memory, shamefully so. How right had he been, even in those early stages—Elidibus was always wiser than his years, adept in his fields, it was why the paragon respected him in such a degree. They’d went through many a revision, settling upon the product he now heard resonating within the halls of the hero’s soul. He’d debuted it as an encore following one of the Emissary’s monthly performances at the amphitheater—she was sure to be in attendance, she always was.

That evening she was late, he remembered. Excess work she’d been given by the Speaker, she’d explained after, and of course he understood—an order from one on the convocation could not easily be ignored, not even then. Despite her late arrival, he’d felt when her presence had entered the room, he’d felt her…attention, her mind, heart, turn to him, playing in place of the Emissary on stage. Gods, he thanked every being that could be, every being that ever was, that he had the Sight in that moment. Nothing could ever compare to how her soul shimmered, how her happiness swelled and peaked, all for…for _him._

Hades froze as the music stopped, realization dawning that he’d come full circle to the center of the hero’s aether, standing dumbstruck amongst chains and shards of her soul. The fragmentation was worse here, far more dense and spacious than he’d seen prior. He could hear whispering around him, fast chattering, conversations and battles—replays of experiences the hero had witnessed within her shards, of her own and others passed. The chains that’d tethered the crystal above him cut against the translucent pieces of those memories, scattering the space with pieces of her soul and self. He could feel his chest burning at the sight of them, “Retract as much of your aether as you can, hero.”

He could feel Emilia’s hand tense against him, her fingers clenching above his wrist, “I…I’m trying.”

Hades reached out and began pressing his essence into the bindings, working towards the shards he could see extending from the wound at her center. The brightness he’d experienced the first time was dull in comparison, but her flow was tumultuous—churning and whispering, grasping onto his mind with force.

_“I apologize for being late,” Persephone smiled, giving him a slight bow. She stood at the cusp of the stage, looking up to him from beneath her hood. The other performers had long since left the theater, cleaning backstage and packing or in his case, awaiting his review from the one the work had been written for. “I had a project to finalize for the Speaker. Though I must confess, I didn’t realize you were a performer, Hades?”_

_The man in question bowed his head in return, trying his best to hide the tremoring in his hands. Of course she’d know, she was the amphitheaters’ best patron—why did Hades think this was a good idea? “I-I’m not. The Emissary undertook my act as a personal favor,” His heart was racing, heightened by the performance high he’d felt just prior, “I…I am honored that you’ve been able to attend.”_

_“Oh, of course,” Her smile absolutely lit up, gleaming as bright as her eyes, “I oft enjoy his renditions of quartet literature, though…the final selection was a bit lost to me. Is it new?” _

_“Y-yes.” He adjusted the white of his mask, pulling his hood further over his shoulders. With the stage lights, he was sure she wouldn’t miss the flush that’d taken to his cheeks, “Did…you like it?”_

_Persephone brought her hand to her chin, thinking. “Well,” He watched as the blue of her eyes left him, twinkling from behind her own white and black visage. He felt his chest stutter, “Can I make a request?”_

_“Of course.” He watched as her smile returned, wider and coy. _

_“One moment,” The girl looked to each side of her, ensuring no one was watching, then turned back to him, bundling the bottoms of her robes in hand. Hades averted his eyes immediately, stepping back in his embarrassment. It was a custom of his people to keep their identities hidden—their culture was of no comparison, mind and creation alone being the traits with which any could stand apart. Their utopia revolved upon this principle; intimate relations would sometimes allow for the reveal of faces, but it was more so was to show any glimpse of body or figure. _

_“What are you doing?” The white-haired Amaurotine opened his eyes, shocked to find Persephone bent within his line of sight. He lowered his hands from his mask, watching as she began to laugh. His eyes couldn’t miss it, the shimmering glee which exuded from her soul, the brightness of the color, so much like her eyes. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Hades. Mine apologies.”_

_In her laughter, strands of long brown hair had fallen from beneath her hood, framing about her face, shoulder. He didn’t expect it to be so long, nor that color, but it was…warm, inviting—like earth and heat, gentle—he liked it. “Y-You didn’t scare me,” He murmured, watching as she began to calm, “I…I just didn’t expect you to climb the stage.”_

_“Oh,” She laughed harder, throwing back her head, “I-I just wanted to ask you something, I forgot that’s…that’s not really polite.” _

_“It’s fine,” Hades interjected, fearful he’d offended her, “I…I think it’s fine.”_

_“I know it’s **fine**, silly,” Persephone spun around, moving towards the black grand piano that’d been left in the center of the stage, her giggles echoing as she did so, “I’m just pointing out a flaw in our stuffy customs. Is it not faster for me to climb the side than walk ‘round to the stairs?”_

_He stepped after her, following as she twisted and danced across the floor, “It…would be, yes.”_

_“There! See,” She plopped backwards onto the piano bench, “If only those in the Rhetoric would but…But this is a musing for another time.”_

_“Oh?” Hades continued forward._

_“Come,” Persephone gestured to him with her hand, “Come, come.”_

_“What was it you wished to ask of me?”_

_The Amaurotine beamed as she turned around, pointing at the piano’s keys with childlike excitement, “Can you teach me what the notes are? I…” He could see pink coloring her cheeks, “I want to learn the melody.” _

Hades gasped as he felt his aether rebuked from within the hero, chimes and splintering brightness overpowering what little his eyes could manage to see. He could smell smoke, sundered flesh, stone and fire, strengthening as his power began to unfurl the bindings around him.

_He didn’t realize how small her hands were until she spread them across the piano’s keys, attempting to reach the expanse of an octave. “What do you do if you can’t touch them?” Persephone’s bright expression had fallen, disappointment heavy in her voice._

_“Elidibus told me before,” Hades mused, extending his hand beside her own. Between his pinky and outstretched thumb, he had the reach of a tenth, “You’d have to roll them. Thumb first, then reach with your pinky, as quickly as you can.”_

_“The notes won’t sound together though,” She pouted, reaching and pressing down the white keys, C4 to C5, rotating the cycle of each note. Thumb-pinky-thumb-pinky, “What’s the point?”_

_“You still achieve the effect, though sometimes it helps to hold down the pedal,” He gestured with his boot to the right-most lever beneath them, pressing it down with his toes, “With this, it allows the notes played to sustain longer than the strings allow, normally anyway.”_

_She looked at him with wide eyes, shocked, “How?” _

_Hades smiled and pushed back the rack for his sheet music, exposing the hammers, strings, and harp that made up the inside body of the instrument. They glimmered beneath the stage lights, reflecting upon the underside of the glossy lid in shades of gold and bronze. “Look here,” He pointed to the wooden plate that rested beneath the hammers, “When I press down the pedal, this will move.”_

_Persephone watched in awe as the board, as he said it would, moved. The dampeners that rested beneath the strings side-stepped all at once, releasing their grip from the strings and allowing the notes Hades pressed to vibrate freely, ringing for more than twice the worth they'd been before. Her mouth fell open, “How interesting...So delicate, mechanical.” _

_“’Tis quite the creation,” Hades smiled as she reclined back onto the bench, sitting alongside him with a soft thump. "Thoughtful."_

He could feel a set of hands resting upon his back, supporting him as his body shook, weakening and convulsing with exhaustion. Hades sensed his aether fading from within the hero’s core, the fragments of her soul clicking and rejoining as his essence was thrust in finality from the wound. His mind felt stretched and weak, stuck between that which he’d witnessed in her mind and that which the transference had brought forth in his own.

As he opened his eyes, he saw Emilia was held the same as he, leaning back against the support of her student’s hands. Her eyes were open as well, searching his with a bone-deep weariness he could feel rather than see.

“He’s done it.” The Oracle was bent between them, her hands clasped hopefully against her chest. She smiled as she looked upon the hero, “I can see more of her soul.”

Hades scowled as he looked at her torso, surprised to find their tether absent from the space between them. The color of her soul shone the same, though the hole looked...for lack of a better word, patched. His aether was all but spent, but perhaps it had worked, perhaps he had managed to halt the cracking.

“Thank you, Emet-Selch.” The Summoner looked up from his mentor’s shoulder, offering him a tired smile.

.

The Emissary sneered as he stepped forward from his portal, coming to rest within the center of the hero’s room. His eyes wandered over the furniture as his boots touched upon the ground, the quaint aesthetic that’d been the design’s inspiration a mockery to the being that laid before him. A kitchenette, dining table and sitting area sat to his right, topped with an array of foods and snacks, untouched but fresh and obnoxiously fragrant. Wooden support beams rose from the stone floor, trimmed and…peasanty, matching in style to the stairs and windows. Elidibus turned back to the elevated sleeping area, watching as the hero tossed amongst her blankets.

He fought a laugh as he stepped forward; unaware was she of his presence, the ire her deeds had begun to evoke of him, of Zodiark. He moved to her bedside, inspecting the sheen of her soul. It was as he thought, the very same dulled luster, rejoined of eight but…tumultuous and…searching.

“Such a pathetic existence,” He murmured, bringing forward his facial glyph. Elidibus had not the ability to witness the essence that Emet-Selch could, at least no longer, but the pull of this hero was as he’d initially believed. The Father, too, had been correct; this vessel, Champion, was their Azem, their...Fourteenth.

The Emissary brought forth his clawed hand, weaving it atop the crux of the hero’s chest. She moved, brow furrowing as his aether began to drip from his glove, relaxing once the flow of his energies began to settle against her skin. He could see in full the fragmentation that’d borne from her core, the unbearable cracks and lives sealed, bound and coloring within each shard of herself. The sight of the turmoil intrigued him, though he couldn’t understand just what had brought forth such an influx in her soul. Surely her battle hadn’t left her in such a state of distress?

Elidibus bore further, surprised to find _amaranthine_ aether weaving and binding the fragmentations of her essence…_together_. “So, you’ve found her again, my friend…” He shook his head, a wave of regret coloring at the edges of his mind. This had been his fear, knowing how Hades would seek her once freed, liberated of his temperament—he was of sound mind, but the danger that could present was paramount.

The Emissary clenched his jaw and pressed his aether against the edges of hero’s, a wash of numbing cold filling his chest. The Father was right; he needed Hades to entreat him, seek him, for sake of their brethren, the Rejoining, and he would only do so if driven to his limits, if provoked. “For his name, Seraph,” Elidibus frowned, “I will relieve you of these memories, this pain. Forgive me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :"D I hope you guys enjoyed the read~ 
> 
> We hitting like...9k for this chapter I think, possibly over that by the ending, lol. The next few chapters will hopefully not be as long, but I'm trying to keep likened scenes conjunct and together within a chapter rather than spreading them too far, if that makes sense? Again, I'm getting more and more hesitant in posting the updates, but it's a nervous excitement for the plot I'm trying to throw at you guys...I think? 
> 
> As always, thank you so so so much for reading and for the support! The musical aspects in this chapter really made me giddy to write coming from and studying as a professional musician, so I hope they give you the fuzzy good feels as much as they did for me~ little bb Hades...getting picked on by Perse...I live for it...hehehe.
> 
> ^also the music they are discussing throughout the end is that of the Shadows Withal theme from the Akademia Anyder dungeon.


	9. Trio

_“Even now, after everything, you refuse to see reason…” She could see his shoulders slump, exhaustion, deep and unbearably old, collapsing his posture forwards. Emet-Selch’s gloved hands ran through the crown of his wine-colored hair, a sigh escaping his lips, “You think it unfair that you are subject to suffering? That your lives will be sacrificed for the ancients?”_

_Emilia looked down, a deep resonance of shame taking her at his inquiry. She didn’t understand—did she consider his proposal unfair? What was he referencing, when…when did he even recover his regalia? _

_The hero scowled as she stepped back, glancing around at the room. Black and gold wove along the walls, the spires, floor—glittering and powerful, elegant. The material looked unreal, a mixture of stone and something akin to marble, or granite. She remembered Y’shtola’s knife, given to her back near the Ondo, she remembered testing it, but this looked stronger still, immoveable. This was definitely not the Ocular, nor the Crystarium, but it was…familiar? Like a foyer or entryway, to somewhere she’d passed, frequented and waited in, but she didn’t understand why._

_From the corner of her eye, Emet-Selch sneered and stormed forward to the center of the room, throwing his arm to his chest with a heavy thump. “Look at me, hero!” Emilia started. He’d moved closer, imposing against the décor; the gold of his eyes were nearly aflame with agony, pain, “Look at me,” His gloved hand pointed to his breast, jabbing, “I have lived a thousand **thousand **of your lives! And do you know why?” _

_“I…” She suddenly felt small, insignificant. Emet didn’t speak to them in this way, with mocking, melodramatic humor, yes, but not with this sudden, vehement rage, not with this weight. “I don’t—”_

_“I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, I’ve even welcomed death’s sweet embrace.” His stained lips turned to a sneer, “You and yours make well to press upon me your mortality, your value. For eons I have measured your kind, hero, and still, you are to be found wanting. All of you, too weak and feeble-minded to serve as stewards of **any** star!”_

_She felt herself backing away, “Have your recent spats with Vauthry and his sin eaters taught you nothing? Have you not learned that your ignorance and frailty beget only endless misery?” _

_Something mingling with guilt, something akin to shame, pressed against her chest—it worsened to meet his gaze. He snarled, “Look at me, hero.”_

_She shook her head, clenching her fists. Vauthry–he was the ruler of Eulmore, a…she remembered. He was a Sin Eater, Innocence, she’d…she’d **absorbed** him. “S-stop this.”_

_“**Look at me**,” He moved swiftly, storming forward to close the gap between them. She stepped backwards as he onward, unsteady, but the Ascian was faster. Before she could step from his reach, his gloved hand clutched hold of her arm, jerking her towards him with a rough pull. _

_Emilia twisted away regardless, struggling, refusing to look at him, “Don’t **touch** me.”_

_“How long do you mean to perpetuate this farce? How much more must I endure your bumbling interference?” His laughter ran cold through the room, grip unwavering, ‘twas almost as if he was answering himself rather than lecturing her. The Warrior of Light reached and made to punch him, “Fine. You wish you debate? Then let us imagine that the laws of reality are undone once more, my dear,” His golden eyes gleamed as she hesitated, brighter than any metal adorning the room, “Imagine the world faces true annihilation. Your star, your home; do you honestly believe that half your number would sacrifice themselves to save the other?”_

_Something…Something answered for her. Replying quietly, and somberly, from within a deep corner of her mind. _

_“Go on, say it,” His free hand slid up to her jaw, holding her steady as she made to pull away. _

_Emilia snarled at his touch, “Let me go.”_

_“Come now, hero, afraid of your Scions hearing your thoughts? Afraid they’ll think less of you to admit your doubts?” His fingers clenched into her skin, bruising in their strength. She could see them, her charge, her comrades, standing along behind her, weapons drawn. Y’shtola, Thancred, Ryne, Urianger, Alphinaud, and Alisaie. “You believe they'll think less of your for your _ **fear** _?”_

_“I’m not **afraid**,” She hissed, bringing her fist down once more. He laughed before she could make contact with him, arm freezing from wrist to shoulder, shaking. Her skin felt like it’d been run through with ice, the outside bound in place by a tendril of dark, blackened aether. That same strength made her respond, “I would offer whatever is needed to save this world, these stars. If they wouldn’t bring themselves to do so, then I would! I’d…I’d do whatever I could to save them, **Ascian**.”_

_Emet-Selch sneered, pulling her close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. His eyes were glittering and gold, piercing, “You honestly think she’d let you sacrifice yourself for them? Her Champion? You think **your** soul enough to save mankind?”_

Emilia groaned as she stirred, rolling over atop the blankets on her bed. Her body felt like it’d been run ragged, every limb ached in protest to her movements, quivering with exhaustion and lingering sleep. She placed a fist against the curve of her brow, scowling—a horrendous headache was threating from behind her eye. The light in the room wasn’t helping, if anything it was making the oncoming vertigo worsen—she wanted sleep. No dreams, no weird visions or echo, just undisturbed sleep and peaceful awakening.

She peered around her arm, looking down the steps to her foyer. The sun had already risen well above the crux of her window, beaming inside with warmth and a gentle, comforting halo of light. Emilia could have sworn she’d made well to draw her curtains the night before, but she _had_ been in the habit of leaving her windows open of late. As the nights cooled, she oft enjoyed leaving them ajar to sleep with the cold—it was comforting, reminding her of night's on the Source. With a hiss, the miqo’te threw what remained of her coverlets aside, casting her legs over the edge of her bed and onto the cold, wooden floor. Her head ached, pulsing as she rose and moved down the steps to her living area.

Beginning with her new morning routine, the hero settled and began to act through the motions. She would start with what was left of her coffee beans, lovingly procured by her Summoner comrade, setting about to grind them while the requisite kettle of water sat upon the stove to warm. Once lit, she would leave it to heat and begin sorting through her armors for the day, either to choose or clean in tandem. She’d detested the linens of the infirmary, and though she oft required a margin of assistance in latching all of her plates in place now, the hero had begun to readorn her normal regalia anyway.

Once she’d set out her outfit for the day, the kettle would often cry out with alarm, bringing her back to the stove to begin preparing her morning cuppa. She detested hot drinks, but with the chill of the oncoming fall mornings, it was a welcome sentiment to wake to. If anything, the heat served to warm her bones from her dreams, bring her back to herself, at least by a small margin. She massaged her forehead as she continued, grumbling.

When gathered from the stove, Emilia would place a filter o'er a mug, filled with coffee grounds, and pour the heated water atop to slowly drip inside. She enjoyed black coffee, particularly if she needed something to wake her up quickly, though some mornings she would indulge in cream, be it she had any available. Once served her drink, the hero would begin disrobing, settling in for a quick wash at the water basin near her bed. It was cold, normally, but again, the drink helped warm her as she’d go about cleansing her skin.

If time permitted, her hair would be brushed and lathered before the remainder of her body, but today was not that morning. After she’d soaped her skin well enough, the hero would replace her smallclothes with a fresh set, something serviceable and with a margin of comfort. Avoiding the mirror, the hero would dry, then set about pulling on her various layers of armor. At least fully clothed the scars and burns from her past seemed less obtrusive on her skin, less memorable, and she could settle to look upon her reflection once more. Though not as deft as her student, the hero wove what she could of her hair in a style reminiscent to that of what D’ve had fashioned for her earlier in the week. She’d taken a liking to it, the braid at least served to keep the weight of her hair from the front of her face. 

Today she chose a billowed, burgundy blouse topped with a tight black vest, clasped at the chest by a pair of ornated, silver buttons. It took her a few moments to manage to get it over the shirt, in fear of tearing at her newer wounds, but she managed it well enough. Matching sets of embroidery embellished the belly of the vest as well as that of the tall, collared neck, fitting snuggly against the length of her torso with another set of fashioned buttons. Once finished with the top, Emilia wrapped her forearms and hands in matching black gloves, open on all fingers aside from the index and thumb. Upon her legs, she swathed a pair of layered leggings, finishing with similarly colored thigh-high boots and a hunting knife, just in case. She’d like to have placed the shoulder plates and likewise bindings atop the rest of the ensemble but decided to forgo them in favor of asking for help; this was well enough, she looked put together—she looked the part.

Emilia drained the last of her coffee and placed the mug back into her sink, looking over to the blade waiting for her by the door. It was a long, weathered cleaver crafted with an old, onyx steel, chipped and scared along it’s visage by years of use and battle. Though newly gifted, the weapon itself was an antique, passed along to her hand by the skilled craftsman in the Tempest. The center of the weapon leered with an ominous crimson gem, shining to her like an eye, watching, imposing against the wooden frame surrounding it. Emilia stared at the sword for a few long minutes, a sense of discomfort taking to her visage. It felt wrong to touch it, to brandish it, but she couldn’t fathom a reason why. It wouldn’t serve to take it with her, not for a discussion—truth be told, the weight alone would probably serve to be taxing to carry, without her previous strength at least. With another rub of her head, the hero steeled herself and headed out for the Ocular.

_._

The hero and Oracle strode through the halls of the Crystal tower, following behind the lead of the Exarch’s guard. Ryne had greeted her in the courtyard, overjoyed and almost bouncing to see she’d managed to detail herself in a fashion reminiscent to their previous journey’s. Her garb was admittedly more casual than before but looking the part of a “Champion” did serve to give the hero some confidence—it was infectious, she supposed.

It’d been about a week since she’d last seen the girl; she and Thancred had already begun procuring supplies for that of the Empty, D’ve and Urianger accompanying as needed. It’d be another fortnight before they were ready, she supposed, but still. Emilia had wanted to travel with them, she was as curious as the Oracle about that life in the desolation, that aether she could sense. Though the two continued to promise they’d wait for her recovery, the hero had a feeling they would set out soon regardless.

Ryne’s hand found purchase on the Warrior of Light’s sleeve, tugging upon it gently, “Emilia, are…are you okay?”

The miqo’te’s ears twitched as she looked down at the Oracle, clearing her from her ruminations. She feigned a smile, “I’m alright, why do you ask?”

The girl frowned as she stared up at her, “You became very quiet and…” She sulked, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Can you repeat it for me, then?” Emilia reached over and patted her head, ruffling the top of her long, red hair—Ryne giggled and moved to smooth it back. Though she was never one to enjoy the company of children, the hero had grown overly fond of the Oracle, her innocence and wonder. It was invigorating, seeing how excited she was to learn, how excited she was to help, “I had a few things on my mind and I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you.”

She seemed to consider her response, “I was wondering if…if it would be okay if I came to stay with you one night? I…wanted to hear more about the Source.”

The hero laughed. “Of course,” When unoccupied, she and D’ve had taken to recounting their tales for her when sleep seemed, more so than normal, to allude them. Sometimes the mornings had proved to be better for their stories, if either of the warrior’s proved to have tasks to complete, but the Oracle always greeted them with eager patience. Ryne never failed to beg for descriptions or details, names, definitions, and the pair were always too happy to indulge. Even if she couldn’t stay awake through all of them, recounting the happier times did serve to distract them from that which still loomed ahead, “I’d be more than happy to indulge you, but you do know what you’ll have to do.”

Ryne’s eyes fell to the ground, hands folding behind her back. “I’m sure Thancred would let me…”

Emilia smirked, “I’m sure he would, but did you happen to ask?”

She pouted, sighing, “…Not yet.”

“I will then.”

“R…Really?” Her expression had brightened measurably, almost beaming from beneath the sweep of her bangs.

Emilia laughed, “Of course. I doubt he’d tell me no, particularly if D’ve asked.” She winked at her charge, “You know how he is with him.”

She held back a grunt as the Oracle slammed herself into her side, hugging her tightly. It was painful, but the gesture itself numbed the stinging of her wounds—she couldn’t deny this child, “You’ll need to bring yourself a set of blankets, and a change of clothes, alright?”

“Absolutely!” Ryne nodded, giggling, “I’ll bring those…you said they were slippers, right?”

“Yes,” Emilia chuckled, falling back into step behind the guard, “Bring your slippers as well.”

.

As the doors to the Ocular opened, the noise in the room quietened, all eyes turning to the Warrior of Light and her accompanying, young charge. The scene before them was…well, it was quite unlike any she had expected to arrive upon.

Their au’ra comrade stood in the center of the room, fuming, glaring down past her upturned fist. Her biceps were held back by D’ve and Thancred’s own, though the gesture didn’t seem as though they were actually holding her back no more than she was _allowing_ them to do so. Beneath the trio, Emilia could see the Ascian sitting spread upon his ass, gauzed hands resting tenderly upon his now bruised, and slightly puffed, jaw. Neither turned to the two of them as they entered, each glaring ahead at Yvette’s upturned, clenched fist.

“Just in time to join the fun,” Alisae looked up as the pair stepped forward, smirking, “Had you arrived any later I would have had to join in.”

Emilia frowned, “What’s going on?”

The Exarch met the gaze of the hero and shook his head, exasperated. “Please, let us come to a semblance of order.” He walked over to the north of their group, “Now that our Warrior of Light is here, we can begin to plot our course.”

Yvette’s lilac eyes widened as they turned, taking in the length of Emilia’s form. The pair alongside dropped her arms as she moved, stepping sideways as she began to immediately stalk forward, glaring, _fuming_.

“It’s good to see you.” The hero responded, smiling gently. “I hope Eulmore treated you well?”

Hades brow furrowed as he watched their exchange. He’d been…preoccupied as she’d arrived, but there was a moment in which he’d second-guessed himself, fearing he was correct. As he continued to watch, Hades confirmed it; something was…_covering_ the sheen of the hero’s soul, like a shade or a curtain. Opaque, just enough to take the metallic silver from the edges, just enough to make it…_wrong_.

This was the first time he’d witnessed her since their previous exchange, but surely the his aether hadn't affected her this way? Hades made move to stand, but the ginger-haired Summoner stopped him, “Let me help you.”

His golden eyes narrowed as he glared at the boy’s outstretched hand, “Why?”

“Because you can’t stay on the ground,” D’ve chuckled, “And because you’re too hurt to do it yourself. Come on, let me help.”

Hades scowled as he held out his arm, allowing D’ve to take hold of his bicep. An effortless heave, and he was pulled to his feet, standing and watching as the two heroes were reunited. The Ascian placed his hand back to his jaw, gingerly rubbing at his skin. He hadn’t expected the girl to hit him with a right hook, let alone one of that magnitude. It’d been a few hundred years since he’d last been struck in the face that hard.

“_I should beat you,”_ Yvette snapped, pointing a finger at her friend. She’d picked up new attire as well, it’d seemed, a minstrel coat, dyed in liken to her eyes, but swathed with gold embellishments and brown leather. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? How long I _waited_ to hear word of your health?”

Emilia winced as she approached, “I’m…I’m sorry word wasn’t sent sooner, but I’m alright. Really, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“The _hells_ there’s nothing to worry about,” The au’ra stormed up the stairs to stand in front of her, chest puffing with anger. Her narrow, scaled tail whipped wildly against her legs, “What about the _Ascian_, hmm? You’re telling me he’s nothing to worry about, nothing to be concerned with, considering he _did _this to you_?_”

Hades frowned as Emilia looked to him, the blue of her eyes gleaming against the crystal of the Ocular. The guilt he felt at meeting her gaze reignited his mind, his thoughts. Her comrade had the right of it, it seemed, and yes, it was true. She would have been so much better off without his influence. The Scions, her, her soul, would have flourished without his presence, both prior and now—he…he would have been better off, he should have...

“He’s here because of Hydaelyn.”

Yvette turned her gaze to him as well. The unadulterated contempt that flowed from her made him want to shrink, even though it was well-deserved, “…You’re kidding me.”

“No.” The hero continued to stare at him. Hades could feel his chest tightening—it was wrong of him to feel so by her attentions. It was wrong for him to be here, to be happy in her presence, to feel hopeful, to…feel, witness, that soul. The wedge of darkness was beginning to slip in his mind, begging him for a distraction, for something, anything, to make its impact lessen, to keep it at bay, at least here. If he faltered, if he showed any of what he'd let slip in his chambers these past sennights, he felt he'd drown back in that darkness. “We don’t entirely understand it…but…Ryne said that she could sense the Mother’s influence within him.”

The au’ra crossed her arms, looking over his figure, “So she brought him back. That doesn’t answer the _why_?”

“And _there’s_ the right of it,” Thancred interjected hotly. He’d fallen back to stand alongside Y’shtola, brooding, glaring.

“Regardless,” Emilia replied, unwavering in her gaze, “Emet-Selch has helped to stabilize my soul. Though we’ve yet to truly discuss the reasoning,” She paused, “I am…grateful for his interjection.”

The room fell silent, eyes moving to that of the Ascian, to that of the hero, watching, gauging. He didn’t know her, he didn’t have a right to, but he understood how heavy those words were, how profound. She wasn’t the one to _be_ saved, she was the one _who_ sacrificed, she was the one who gave _everything_; for those who she could save, for those she could still yet. Hades felt as though he was staring at his sins, as if he was reading his own ledger, dripping, reeking, swathed with the blood and death from eons of wrongs, of tempered hatred and pain. He swallowed as the Exarch cleared his throat, regaining the attention of the room, “Now that we are all reacquainted, let us begin.”

.

Hades sat quietly in his room, glaring down at his swathed hands. A plate of steamed root vegetables and lentils rested upon a platter before him, untouched, though their fragrance was welcoming. Despite the rumblings now coming from his stomach, the Ascian couldn’t bring himself to eat. He felt…pathetic, he felt disgusting. He couldn’t help her, he couldn’t quell that pain in the hero’s chest, the shroud of contempt, misery, and loss—_again_ he’d been witness, and _again _he was left with nothing to show, to give.

The Scions had come to their decision.  
Upon the morrow, her comrades of Light, D’ve and Yvette, would embark through the rift, back to the Source and back to the homage of the remaining’s physical forms. The hero fought them, yelling, throwing heated words amongst the Ocular, but her charge remained steadfast. As she was, all were aware; the hero couldn’t traverse the planes, no matter how she wanted to, nor how much they wished it. Her soul needed to mend, it needed to reprise—it was still in disarray, despite its superficial improvement, and that travel would only worsen the case, in the best scenario.

He shouldn’t have stepped in, he shouldn’t have told and confirmed their suspicions, confirmed she was still injured—it wasn’t his place. He wasn’t allowed to worry for her, he wasn’t permitted to feel that anxiety, not anymore. Hades didn’t know this shard, he didn’t know the tribulations she’d fought through, the battles she’d endured, the heartache; it wasn’t his place, but he was selfish. He couldn’t risk losing her, losing that soul, on behalf of a few meager souls—not again.

She had just barely been put together in front of them, just barely whole, as they planned their course, their commentary. He’d watched her throughout the exchange, gauging her reactions, weighing her soul, but she was steadfast. Not a word was uttered from the hero’s lips as they continued, and not a word was exchanged as she left, but she’d slammed the doors with enough force to crack the air and silence the room. In the end her comrades had started after her, understanding her anger, but were held back by the Exarch, in fear of what their intervention may bring about her mood, actions. It was a wise decision—if she had the courtesy to remove herself, then they could give her the courtesy to regain her composure.

Hades had stayed for a margin of the remaining’s discussion, but opted for his rooms once he felt their wells of information had run dry. He gathered himself and excused his presence, with the supervision of the Astrologian—the Ascian couldn’t focus here. The pain which colored her chest, her soul, was unnatural. That obtrusive dullness was mingling with her core, it had to be, but that alone shouldn’t cause her essence to flatten, to matte—so what had, and in such little time?

The machinations on his door began to turn.

With a start, Hades looked up at his guest, shocked to find that very same blue, silver soul standing in his entryway. He opened his mouth, searching for words, and promptly shut it as she stepped inside—his thoughts all but faded at the sight of her.

“Sorry to bother you.” She began, stopping just short of his cot. He’d waited to meet her gaze, but she kept it locked upon the floor, almost distractedly. A bundle of wrapped canvas had been tucked beneath her arms but other than that, the hero looked as she had in the Ocular—armored, whole, steeled. He had to admit, he was taken aback by her wardrobe; truth be told, he hadn’t thought her able to wear such regalia yet, not with the wounds, but it _had_ been a sennight since he’d last seen her.

Hades took in a shuddering breath, watching as the Warrior’s soul churned against her vessel. Something was still bothering her, “To what do I owe the honor, hero?”

Emilia looked up from the floor, meeting his gaze with an icy, stoic coldness. His chest tightened, “It was agreed upon that you can now leave the Tower, under supervision, mind you.” When she didn’t continue, he bent his head in curiosity. “I…felt you may have grown tired of your chamber. Here-”

He watched as she stepped closer, placing the bundle atop the latter half of his bed. When her gaze settled upon his hands, still wrapped and gauzed, she winced. “Ah. Right.”

Hades scowled, looking down at them himself. “Apologies. Without my aether they’re taking longer to heal.”

“It’s alright.” Emilia hesitated, watching him, and settled for unwrapping the package herself, placing the contents out upon the mattress in neat, organized piles. “I…found a few things in the armory that may fit you.” She handed him a top first, “I know it’s nothing like your other regalia, but you’ll need it. It’s cold outside.”

The Ascian appraised the attire as she handed him the pieces. The first was a turtleneck, ribbed with various patches of leather and embroidery upon the shoulders, and long sleeved. The fabric looked comfortable, despite the apparent wear in which the cloth had been subjected. Second, was a set of belts and bags, meant to wrap about his waist, with a weapon sheath mounted upon the edge. He supposed it was meant for a mage, considering the size of the satchel, but it would prove to be bountiful, particularly if he could make a stroll to the markets, or the libraries. Text would at least alleviate some of his boredom, be it these allowances of freedom were given in few quantity. Without aether, teleportation or creation would be out of question, so this would have to be, at least for now.

The third was a pair of trousers, dark brown, thick and patched with corrugated leathers and stitching. Socks of a thick wool followed suit, leathered gloves, scarves, and the last was what he assumed to be a jacket. Light fur danced about its hood, the length of it extending down to the floor as she held it up—the weight of it looked comforting, promising of warmth as it blanketed atop the pile. She finished her unveil with a set of boots and various other layers, either similar or in close enough stylings that they could be paired with the main set of acoutrama.

“I…don’t really know what you like to wear, but this resembled your other coat.” Emilia began, softly. The retrospection with which she spoke made him uncomfortable—she remembered that much, at least. “I thought it’d keep you warm.”

Hades scowled, looking over the clothes. They were handed down, their wear obvious to any trained eye of military, but she was right—they looked warm, and useable. “You needn’t have gone through the trouble. I’ve…nothing to give you in return.”

“You’ve information.” He looked up at the hero, watching as she crossed her arms atop her chest. In the light, her eyes shone, glimmering betwixt the cascade of her hair, bangs. For a moment, she looked every bit the part of Persephone—mischievous, cunning, woefully intelligent, but it didn’t linger. This was the Warrior of Light, Darkness—not his love, not her. It would prove to be dangerous to compare the two, “You don’t need to divulge your exchanges with Hydaelyn, but…I have questions, about the Tempest, about…” Her conviction faltered, “Things. I’d hear your answers, in exchange.”

The Ascian looked down, appraising the cloth. “Should I refuse your offer?”

“Then here you will remain.” Emilia quipped, shrugging. “I’m offering you a repose from these rooms as an extension of freedom. We've all come to agree on cooperation,” _She_ would have said the same. “So I thought the offer may seem appealing. Though, I’d be lying if I said that was my sole purpose.”

The hero turned from him and began to walk towards the entrance, tail swaying along behind her. “I’ll give you a few moments to arrange yourself, but I’ll be leaving shortly. Do try to layer up.”

.

He was surprised to find how well the attire seemed to fit. The boots were too large, as well as the trousers, but the remainder of his clothes were comfortable, and in every manner of the word, warm. The gloves and like would have to wait for when his hands were healed, but he appreciated that they would be readily available—Garlean or not, he always enjoyed adorning them, even in Amaurot.

“Ah,” As he stepped from his rooms, the hero moved from her place along the wall, gazing upon his attire. “It’s been awhile since I’ve fitted anyone. Seems I’m…slightly out of practice.”

“Everything fits well enough,” Hades replied, looking at his own appearance, “Though I’ll admit I...didn’t know you studied in the arts of tailory?”

“Back upon the Source,” She beckoned to him as she began to walk. Together, the pair strode amongst the halls of the tower, descending staircases and hallways alike. He vaguely remembered a few, though her pace made it a little hard for him to recollect which led to where, “I’d used weaving as a means to repair mine and my comrade's gear. We had little in the way of money, and mending our own attire meant the remaining gil could keep us from starving, or dying from illness.”

Hades frowned. He knew the sentiment, as Solus he had oft done the same, at least in the very beginning. “A wise investment, considering.”

“I suppose.” Emilia continued, skipping down the last of their stairwell.

The Ascian came to rest alongside her as they reached the expanse of the Tower’s large, crystalline foyer. It was quite a marvel, seeing the imposing demeanor with which the entryway served—the floors and halls extended like a maze above them, lost in height by layers of blue and gold columns. Stairwells served to ground each floor, but his mortal eye couldn’t discern the number, not from here.

“Evening,” Emilia greeted, nodding to their guests.

At the gates stood two of her Scions, the mage seer and the diplomat, armed and waiting. Though their demeanor spoke of calm, he could see them tense at his arrival.

“Evening to you both,” Alphinaud replied.

“Emet-Selch,” Y’shtola began, watching as the hero strode past them. The younger elezen rushed in behind her, eager to be rid of his presence, it seemed. Each set to work opening the large, crystalline doors, “I do hope you understand the weight of what she extends to you.”

Hades felt himself prickle at her implication. “Meaning?”

“She’s the one who convinced the Exarch to allow you this freedom,” She matched his expression, crossing her arms atop her chest. Her misted eyes dissettled him, “Do try to refrain from doing anything that could result in that privilege being taken.”

“The _privilege_ with which I allow you is her _life_,” He snapped. It was perhaps too far of a statement to assume that he’d been the instrument with which their Champion lived, but in a way, it was true now. The cause and the effect, he was, whether they seemed to accept him for the latter or not. Without the previous two reparations, the Warrior of Light would likewise still be bedridden, or worse. “I can just as easily return to my rooms, of no consequence at all to myself. None that will phase me in the way your kind seem to think it will, at least." He scowled, "It was your _Primal _which pulled me from the rift. Lest you’ve forgotten, she took away what use I had over my own aether.”

“No, I’ve not,” Y’shtola brought a hand to her chin, smirking, “Though I do find it curious that you are here, regardless. If remaining in your rooms is a prospect of which you favor, why would you attend her call, hmm?”

Hades felt coolness seep into his visage, despite the layers. Her eyes seemed to be peering through him, into his soul, mind.

“Everything okay?” The pair turned to see the elezen and hero standing at the opened doors, waiting.

“Nevertheless, I’ll be curious to see what becomes of you, Ascian.” Y’shtola offered the Ancient a bow of her head as she turned to join the others, the grin upon her face still present.

.

Yvette yawned as she stretched out across the floor of Emilia’s room. After their dinner, the two had retired to their friend’s chambers in hopes of catching her, in hopes of talking, though to their dismay Emilia hadn’t been in. When asked, the parlor-keep stated she’d been by earlier in the morning, but she had left a note for them, stating that the two and the Oracle were welcome to wait—she’d be back later.

An array of supplies laid at Yvette’s sides and feet, stacked and arranged in order of their importance and use. The Exarch had been extremely accommodating, especially in their abbreviated notice—neither of them had expected to receive so many provisions. D’ve chuckled as he began stuffing his bag, “Feeling tired?”

“A little,” The au’ra gazed up at the ceiling, crossing her arms beneath her head. “I’m not the biggest fan of packing.”

“I know,” The miqo’te wrapped a set of bandages and salves into the outer pockets of his satchel. Once full, he began inspecting bottles of potions, holding them up to the light, “I’m not either.”

Yvette closed her eyes, sighing. Over the course of their evening, the Summoner had recalled the events which the Scions and hero had experienced over their time on the First. She had been told a shorter, compressed version before embarking to Kholusia, granted, but that was of necessity. She had needed as much time as possible to assist in Eulmore’s political changes, now devoid of Vauthry's influence, and with the declining state of the Warrior of Light, at the time, the Crystarium was the best course for their friend, she left to occupy the city-state. Now, the bard found she felt slightly overwhelmed by the tale her comrade told.

To think that she and D've had been fighting in the Ghimlyt Dark over the entirety of their friend’s journey was almost unfathomable. What little time passed on the Source equated to years on the First—how much time had really passed, she wondered?

She did seem different, in the Ocular. Yvette couldn’t place it, but Emilia seemed colder, weary—if anything despondent, but she supposed it was deserved. After what she had experienced, done, Yvette would probably feel the same, given a similar situation. Death, in insurmountable numbers, does tend to change people, not to mention the Lightwardens... “Do you think she’s mad at us?”

The miqo’te ears twitched as he looked at his friend, pausing in his ministrations, “Emilia, you mean?”

Yvette frowned, “Yeah.”

D’ve set aside his satchel, “I…I think she’s mad about the situation,” He murmured, “Not us, per se.”

A silence filled them. No, she wouldn’t be mad at them, they knew, she’d be mad at herself. They knew, as well, that that was more dangerous.

“Did the Ascian really mean what he said, about her soul?” Yvette tilted her head, moving so that she could look at her friend fully.

“He has used some of my summons to channel aether, yeah,” D’ve stretched, curling up upon the floor near the bard’s side. A few papers crinkled beneath him, but he paid them no mind, “None of us really understand what it is he’s doing, but Emilia’s soul is more whole after each session. His aether remains unchanged, it’s just his affinity that he’s adding to repair it, I think. Light versus Dark-and it's working, so...”

“Where was the hole?” She asked.

The miqo’te pointed to his center, tracing a large circle over the expanse of his ribs and breast, “He said it was like this,” he paused at his sternum, “But cracks spread out from here.”

“And it’s the cracks he’s trying to mend, to stop any further damage?”

He nodded, “That’s my understanding. She’s much better than she was, and for that, we’re grateful.” D’ve’s expression fell, “We didn’t know what to do for her, I…I tried researching it, but I couldn’t find anything, neither could Y’shtola or Urianger. This sort of thing doesn’t…it doesn’t exist, at least not in text.”

“Grateful are we for the Ascian’s interference, then.” Yvette reached out and poked her friend’s ear, chuckling at his startled reaction, “You needn’t blame yourself either. It seems as if it’s a magic that we have yet to experience.”

“Mayhap,” D’ve scowled, “I just…I just worry about what’s next. It’s going to take time before she’s back to her full strength, and…she’s just going to keep pushing herself.”

“Well,” Yvette stretched out her arms and sat up, looking down at her comrade with a wide, toothy smile, “It’s a good thing she has us then.” 

.

Hades scowled as they embarked from the courtyards, Scions in tow. The hero, despite her pretense of questioning, had remained silent since picking up her company, and the silence was beginning to wane on him. Without something to distract his mind, his sight, he could only focus on her soul, watching as she walked just ahead of him. The matte curtain remained over the silver, the gleam, but the blue beneath raged, swirling and churning in tandem with her movements, her vessel.

“I’m heading into Lakeland,” The trio looked to the hero as she stopped, turning back to the two behind her.

Their party came to halt, “The we’ll accompany you, lead on.” Y’shtola prompted, gesturing to the Crystarium gates.

“Emet-Selch and I. You two will remain here.” She challenged, crossing her arms.

The elezen started, “W-what? Emilia, you…you can’t be serious?” Alphinaud gestured wildly between the seer and the hero, “That’s not safe, especially at this time of night, especially with an…an _Ascian_. You’ve no weapon, no-”

A flash resounded to the hero’s right, cracking the air with pops of likened colored aether, building and growing into the shape of a sword. A moment later and a large cleaver appeared within her outstretched hand, extending and glimmering dangerously beneath the light of the moon.

Hades felt his heart stop, shuddering—surely…surely he was mistaken. Under no circumstance, instance, had he ever witnessed, felt, that the hero could…_create_, but…but this, _this _could...there was no way this could be. Familiar in appearance, perhaps, but...it was true, the weapon had apparated from nothing more than her aether, her will—he could see it, surging and pulsing beneath her hand, glittering, and charged in a color selfsame to her aether. Though it existed prior, she did, in this moment, create it, force it here with her will.

“N-Nevertheless, we cannot simply allow you to go alone,” Alphinaud hesitated, “T’would be reckless of us to even consider it. Y’shtola?”

The seer shrugged, watching as the Warrior of Light swung the cleaver onto the latches at her back, locking it into place. Sight or not, the gesture was familiar, welcome to her eyes, “She will be fine, Alphinaud.”

The elezen sighed in exasperation, pacing about his space in frustration, “Are we really entertaining this? Am I the only one speaking any sense?”

Y’shtola chuckled and placed a hand on his shoulder, “We will guard the perimeter, though we will give you space.” She inclined her head in question, “Is that welcome, Emilia?”

The hero nodded, “Very well.”

Hades watched as she turned her gaze to him, then to the staircase behind, gesturing for him to follow. His chest was still aching, reeling, at this revelation, conclusion, but he forced himself to walk in tow regardless. If she’d managed to create, what…what else was this Warrior capable of?

The Scions surveyed as they descended past the gates, waiting until they disappeared amongst the swelter of trees, foliage. “We should follow them,” Alphinaud sighed, running his hands through his hair, “Something’s going to happen, or go wrong, and…and-”

Y’shtola patted his shoulder once more, chuckling, “It will be okay. She knows what she’s doing,” He huffed in return, “We simply need to place our trust in her. N’er has there been a time in which the Warrior of Light couldn’t handle herself amongst their ilk. Come,”

The seer pulled upon the elezen, dragging him back towards the Crystarium gates, “I find myself in want of a drink. ‘Tis cold and I need something to warm my fingers.”

.

Emilia led on, dipping and crossing amongst the paths of Lakeland, careful to avoid the creatures which lurked beyond the gravel and trees. With the sin eaters absent, traversing in the night proved to be marginally less dangerous, much to her relief. As out of practice as she was in combat, however, the hero still wished to avoid conflict if possible—not to mention the Ascian with which she travelled. Without his aether in ready availability, she doubted he could manage to protect himself, let alone the state of his hands.

Emet-Selch stalked behind her, watching in quiet, brooding silence as she looked to the trees, the trails. He didn’t seem to be cold, though a modicum of redness had taken to the tip of his nose and cheeks, “If you’re tired, we can turn back?” She proposed, pausing, “I know not if you’re well enough to walk this much.”

It did feel nice, he had to admit, walking beneath the light and openness of the moon. The hero had been correct in assuming it would be cold—every breath of gust served to carry a derisive chill, bone numbing had he not the coatings swathed across his skin. He’d almost inquired after her dress himself, considering she’d neglected to layer from her previous state of attire, but thought against it. It wasn’t his place to worry, nor did he need to bring further attention to himself—the seers declaration from the Tower was worrisome enough.

Emet-Selch looked to her, eyebrows knitting in confusion. The question seemed to have caught him off guard, “I’m…fine, hero. Lead on.”

She nodded and did as he bade, following the paths from the gates and outward, in the direction of the Thirstless Shore. Their pace was slow, cautious, but at least with this stride he could manage to stay close enough, be it any creature decided to strike.

As they walked, the hero was becoming more and more uncomfortable. She didn’t know where to begin with her questions, and the arid silence only aided to heighten her anxiety. She’d spent the latter half of the afternoon busying herself with mindless tasks, needs of those in the Crystarium. The tedious nature, though less physically taxing than mental, should have proved to allow her mind to plot, to organize, but Emilia had been wrong. The longer she’d been left to her devices, the worse her mind seemed to conjure.

“Hero,” Emilia looked over her shoulder as the Ascian came to a sudden stop. He’d crossed his arms, standing defiantly in the middle of the path, “Is…Is there something troubling you?”

The hero stopped and turned, taking the same posture herself. His question seemed out of place, “What could be bothering me?”

Emet-Selch turned his head, looking away as she’d met with his gaze. From this angle, she could spot the bruise that’d begun to form along the edge of his jaw, “You’ve brought me out here, though you’ve yet to ask a single question.” He scowled, “It’s apparent it’s something you’re unwilling to tell your charge, so what is it?”

Emilia scowled. Even without explanation he’d known the right of it—she didn’t wish to discuss her dreams with her comrades, nor her worries. Of course that mentality had proven to backfire in the Ocular, but they’d been keeping things from her as well—her memories, their journey, for example. “I…I’m trying to think of how to word it.”

She felt a surge of panic as he turned back to her, staring. The expression written across his face was unreadable, the gold of his eyes heavy and judging. “Try.”

The hero shuffled, lowering her head. She could begin with the dreams, see if he may recognize any of them? Be it Hydaelyn truly did resurrect the Ascian for the purpose of aiding the Scions, the glimmers of memories could belong to him—it wouldn’t be the first time the Mother showed her the life of another. Of course, there was the opportunity to ask of events, things that’d happened during their time on the First, things that she’d suddenly forgotten, or misplaced amongst their timeline. It was more or less a side-effect of her soul, she felt, but if he could verify or clear some of her apprehensions, then perhaps that alone would stop the Echoes, give her peace. “I…I want you to tell me what you’ve seen, inside my soul.”

Hades felt his throat grow dry, “What do you mean?”

“I want to know what you see,” She challenged, stepping forward. Beneath the moon, her eyes gleamed like pearls, washed of color and cold, “I want to understand. I keep…I keep having dreams, these…echoes, and I don’t understand." The hero paused, considering, "My only assumption is that they are of someone else; Hydaelyn brought you back, did she not?”

He nodded slowly.

“If she did, then…I thought that these things I’m seeing now, these dreams, they could be yours.” The turmoil from within her soul was raging, swelling and spilling at the edges of his vision, “I just want to…I want to understand.”

The Ascian felt his heart burning, aching for that very same understanding; what _had _she seen? If it was enough to bring her to this, this form of desperation, bring her to the point she felt she needed to seek him, of all people, it…it could explain the blight he’d begun to witness. The end, the Doom, it would be a horrendous enough memory to bring about that agony, particularly if she shared any of Persephone’s sentiment towards it, towards…towards him, during those final days. “Explain what you have seen, hero." She made to argue but he continued, "I don't know if they are mine, but if you can explain it, then I will endeavor to do the same.”

He watched as the miqo’te’s ears twitched, rising atop her head in interest, surprise. “Y…You would listen?”

Emet-Selch nodded, “In earnest. Go on, hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late arrival of this chapter.  
For those who may or may not follow my social media accounts, a very dear friend of mine recently passed. Through that and a bad wave of sickness I've been combating, this chapter had been set aside.  
In the past two days, however, the muse has strucketh and so an upload we have! 
> 
> Finally getting some WOL and Emet's interaction... :eyes: There's more to come!  
I am a tad anxious to see how this chapter is received...I feel like it has a lot of little blurbs rather than long sequences of things, so it's a little different than previous chapters. I hope you liked it! 
> 
> Also, yes. Emet gets punched. UwU 
> 
> For any who have just noticed, the rating and tags have changed because, sound the alarms, sauce is coming~  
I'll continue to add and alter these as we continue, as well as include slight warnings in the beginning of chapters to alert to the levels of sauciness.  
I hope you guys look forward to it ;) 
> 
> Thank you again for all of the insurmountable love and support! Be it I falter in updating before the holiday's, I hope you all have fantastic celebrations and happiness!! <3


	10. Closed

The Warrior of Light began with the gaps in her memory; there weren’t many, judging by how much Hades realized she could remember, but there was enough. The recollections spanned for lengths, sometimes broken by an intermittent discussion or event, but it was apparent that she’d been told much by her Scions. With her improved health it should have been expected, he supposed, but it was unsettling to think she relied on them for these truths when they left out so much that even he could see the apparent gaps. They, as any, could have reason enough to stray and vary the tale of the First, her deeds—particularly if it would prove to be of benefit to them. Those absent pieces, despite the fraying in her mind, needed addressing, however; the truth, from that of what her own memory had witnessed she held well, but the fable, what her doubt, echoes, tried to conjure in response, that was what concerned him the most.

Emilia didn’t recollect what lied beneath the waters of the Tempest, she didn’t remember ascending the Talos, Vauthry’s death, nor the end of their groups time in the Greatwood. Of course glimmers remained, bits and bobs, but never enough that she could connect the events together. He was careful in his descriptions, leaving aside the greater portions of their conversations, or points in which he, himself, had forgotten once freed from temperment. She listened to him in silence, as he her, gauging each other’s dialogue, retelling.

“Vauthry was a Lightwarden, then.” Emilia stated, glancing over her shoulder to the Ascian. “Innocence, you said?”

Hades met her gaze and nodded, “You have the right of it.”

"I think I remember that much..." She paused, "He...he was created by you, right?” He should have flinched at her accusation, but her eyes held no judgement, no condescension or anger. She walked on patiently, waiting.

“Right again.” He swallowed, “’Twas a necessity after our comrade Mitron fell to the previous Warriors of Light here on the First.”

Emilia seemed to consider his response, “And after the battle, what happened?”

Hades bit his lip, deliberating. It would do little good to fray from the tale, not in any great length. “After your battle I attempted to kill the Exarch. Once I realized what he intended to do with your overabundance of light, anyway,” The hero flinched, “It was apparent that he was more a hindrance to my goals than an aid, something I’d realized too late. Though, I will admit, I still wished to learn how he had managed to move the Tower here.” He was still curious as to how that miqo’te had managed to do so, but that was a musing for another time. “Hence why I shot him, rather than dispense of him entirely. He was valuable.”

The Warrior of Light scowled and turned back to the path, walking steadfast, quiet. The lack of response was unsettling and for a moment, Hades feared he’d perhaps went a little too far in his admissions, “He’d planned to commit suicide, yes?” She was looking back to him again, watching. “The others told me that much.”

“From his dialogue, it would seem so, yes.” He could feel a twinge of ire at her concern, apprehension. Didn’t the very same Exarch just propose her sacrifice herself, knowing that risk? “Though that would be a question better broached by him, if you’re still curious.”

The forest encircled paths began to fade as the pair approached the shores of the Sullen. They’d arrived near the crux of the portside homes, offset by a wide margin, but from their distance warm lamplight could be seen reflecting atop the waters, piers. The hero was silent as they approached, but her pace slowed to no more than a shuffling walk as they broached the shoreline. Hades thought it in response to his own pacing’s, but she paused, taking a seat along a series of stones washed upon the graveled sand. She looked over her shoulder, eyebrow raised, “Come, sit.”

The Ascian scowled at her gesturing hand, “Tired are we, hero?”

“No,” Her curt response surprised him, but she waved it off quickly, pointing again to a rock at her left, “But you are. Sit.”

Hades stepped forward but made no move to take her offer.

She sighed, “We’ve walked a long while and have yet to begin our way back,” The hero’s eyes reflected the water before them, her expression, again, broaching upon a coolness he couldn’t place. “Though I wouldn’t mind helping you, it will hinder us be it we’re met with the wildlife along our way back. Come, sit.”

Begrudgingly, he acquiesced. Without aether the hero was correct—though he didn’t wish to admit it to himself, let alone her. With a grunt, the Ascian bent and took his place atop the stone beside, looking out to the lake before them as silence overtook their conversation.

Upon the water’s center the moon reflected and stretched, pale and glittering against the blackened canvas of its otherwise calm surface. At this hour the water appeared with a touch of menacing unwelcome, as if asking for leave, quiet. The wildlife seemed to broach this same conclusion—an almost uncomfortable silence settled around them, owls, insects, all fell into that very same blackness, calm. Against the backdrop of lavender trees and island it felt a little out of place, but the creature resting beneath seemed to dwell upon it with relaxation and restitution. His sight could tell him it was more than the trees at the horizon’s surface, but to the eye, to the mortal, it ‘twas no more than an elegant isle betwixt a calm lake, “May I continue?”

Hades peeled his gaze from the landscape and back to the Warrior, “If there is more you needs’t ask, then by all means, do so.”

Emilia bowed her head and settled her eyes to her lap, to the hands fidgeting atop, “The part of my memory that seems the most out of…order, is the Tempest. I know the others tried to help sort it, but we were split up for a majority…I would know of it, next. All of it.”

Hades watched her uncertainty, almost amused by the apprehension in her voice. Here, in this moment, the similarities between she and the originally inhabited soul made it hard to talk with an air of ease. When playing up the part of the hero it was easier, the distance and stoic façade made it so. Villain, Savior—habits and banter were a simple route to fall into but here, upon the shore, he didn’t feel she held to her title. “Where would you have me begin, _Warrior of Light_?”

Her eyes twitched at the emphasis he gave to her name. “…Did you know when we arrived?” She still looked down to her hands, “When we had lifted the waters for our passage?”

“Yes,” The Ascian scowled, “T’would be hard not to, considering half of the ocean lay barren, but I feel that in and of itself is apparent, even to you.”

“That’s…That’s the last thing I really remember, descending the depths and coming to the Ondo. We…” One of the hero’s hands went to her temple, her expression furrowed in deep thought. As her fingers pressed against her skin the digit shook, white with the effort in which it massaged against her skull, “We helped them. They believed us to be some…some prophetic _Ancients_, but we didn’t understand. I…I still don’t think I do, but-”

Hades swallowed and pushed down the irritation he felt building in his chest. “You were suffused with light, hero.” He quipped. They were not those _Ancients_, they were so much less, so much of a disappointment—_ocean-dwellers, _why would they dare compare these _shards_ to that of his _people_, to him? “It’s a wonder you managed to remember anything at all, in truth.”

“I still had my consciousness, you know.” Emilia interjected, removing her hand. Her brows were pinched, “Despite what you seem to think of me.”

He clenched his fists, nearly tearing up at the pain that came with it—he’d forgotten the bandages. “You were on the verge of transforming in Vauthry’s keep, your Oracle could only-”

“Ryne contained it, she’s the only reason I made as far as the Tempest.”

“The child bandaged the _cracks_, mayhap.” Hades voice rung cool, “I know not the true state of your soul when arriving in the Tempest, true enough, but without her full power all your Oracle’s _Light_ could do was _salve_ the symptoms of your overburdened soul.” Her chest puffed as she breathed—he’d clearly touched a nerve. “Why else do you think I intervened these past weeks, hmm? Dark is far more powerful, beneficial, to you than another swell of light up light.”

The miqo’te’s brow furrowed; if he didn’t insult her before, he most certainly did now. He watched as her hands trembled, writhing and kneading atop each other in nervous, irritated succession. The gesture looked surprisingly childish, coming from the _vaulted hero_, though…it somehow hurt him to watch, particularly after his outburst. The sheen was there, still present and obscure—it almost felt as if it were _her, _sitting with anxious troubles, rambling to him in means of easing her soul, mind. He’d do it gladly, eons and eons over; listen to her troubles, comfort her with words, touch, anything he could manage to make that blue glisten, to make her happy, solaced, but this was not Persephone. “…Then what, after this?”

Hades took in a breath, leaning forward to rest his elbows upon the tops of his thighs. Not her. _Not Persephone_. “I was…_preoccupied_ during this leg of your journey, hero. I’m afraid there’s little I can clarify for you.”

It was true, in some ways. He’d been preparing, building his resolve and throwing himself over to Zodiark’s incessant orders, but he’d still been present. He knew of her visit with the blacksmith, her acquisition of the lamp and their descent to the abyss, his abode, home, but that didn’t make him any more willing to discuss it. Emilia winced, the defeat was apparent in the slump of her shoulders, “…Right.”

He scowled, watching as her expression fell deeper into obscurity, fixed to the ground, her hands. The tops of her canines bit down worriedly on her lower lip, matching the pacing’s of her fingers. “Perhaps,” Hades cleared his throat, looking back up to the moon. He wasn’t ready to discuss Amaurot, not yet— “We should head back. As loathe as I am to admit I seem to find myself tired, and I wish not to cause you more trouble than our return will already take.”

The Ascian felt his chest tighten as she stilled, looking over her shoulder to him. The weight of her eyes felt cool, detached, but the smile that had turned upon the latter half of her face—

_“I’ll be okay, Hades, please.” Her gloved hands rested atop his own, threading between his fingers with a comforting, gentle warmth. Long had she forgotten her mask, now discarded upon the top of the desk, his alongside. A beam of a smile had colored her lips, wide enough to cause her bright, blue eyes to crinkle, “You’ve plenty to finish in the Bureau. I doubt you’ll even notice my absence.”_

_His fingers fumbled to grasp her, to pull her tighter, closer. Persephone allowed him, nuzzling in turn to the front of his robed chest. “’Tis only for a few days, my love.” Her voice was a whisper against him, “I’ll return soon enough.”_

_Hades shook his head and pressed into her, coaxing his legs betwixt her own in a slow, meticulous step. She smiled as the two of them brushed back past his desk, the chairs, coming to rest against the curved wall of his office with a soft thump. Gently, he poised their still threaded hands alongside each side of her head. “I don’t want you to.” His voice came as a soft, hurt whisper. Journeying to the neighboring cities was never a small feat for his people, more so was it for a member of the Convocation, but for her.... it was her duty. As the Seraph, the Shepard, it 'twas her duty to relieve their souls of the surrounding blight, usher them unto the Lifestream, to him, but he didn’t need to aquiest to it. “We’ve heard of what lies beyond the walls. Blight is Blight, Persephone—you could be hurt, or worse.”_

_The one named of Azem chuckled, leaning forward to brush their noses together in a playful, nuzzling gesture. She had to stand on the tips of her toes to reach him, “And you worry too much for my health,” Persephone grinned, though her cheeks flushed, “I am of the Fourteen now, am I not? I have a job; I cannot ignore my duties, not when our neighbors are lost. Would you not wish the same for our people be it we were met with this paradox?” _

_Hades set his jaw, breathing deep the scent of her. Mint, a mix of honey and flowers, a slight twinge of earth, all compliments to the color of her warm, earthen hair— “Ours will not be met with the _same_, Persephone, thus I need not consider it.”_

_She chuckled as she leaned forward, brushing her lips against the corner of his mouth. Persephone painted kisses over his skin, coloring his cheeks, eyes, and jaw with the heat of her lips. A rush of anxiety, warmth, and _need_ flushed hot through his chest, stomach, “I am accountable for their rest, my _Architect_.”_

_Hades took in a breath, pressing her back flush to his chest and wall behind. Their fingers clasped desperately to one another, threaded and twinned with palms level to the other’s shoulders. She looked up from beneath him, smiling, radiant and in every way the embodiment of his adoration, his love. _

“Emet-Selch?”

_Her bangs fell about her face, tickling his skin as he took her in, swallowing and engulfing what he could of her mouth, her tongue. She was always so sweet on his lips, colorful and elegant like a cherished wine, or decadent chocolate—Garlemald had been the closest he’d come to finding something akin with her flavor, and he’d likely been remembered an alcoholic in some tomes for it._

_“H-Hades, let us go home.” Her voice shook as he began to lap at her throat, biting and tasting her skin. The flush of her cheeks was intoxicating betwixt the pale of her skin and dark of her robes, “This…This is hardly the place for such things.”_

_"You have been gone for so long," He whispered, voice shaking. "Just...let me have a moment. One moment, before we leave."_

“Emet.”

The Ascian swallowed, gasping as he came back to himself. His chest felt tight, as if he’d just ran a great distance. His throat and mouth felt parched of water, each of his accompanying breaths settling and stinging against the lower half of his ribs. Hades looked up, around, shocked to find the Warrior of Light bent upon a knee before him.

The moon colored her silhouette in a halo akin to the pale sheen of her soul—a glimmering, gentle blue, laced and polished with a tremor of silver. Her lips were drawn into a thin, worried line, brows furrowed in much the same fashion, “Emet, are you alright?”

He struggled to find his voice. Part of him was still lost in that moment, wrapped against the figure of his beloved, soothed by the intimacy, comfort, and the part of him that realized this, didn't want to let it go. His soul felt empty without her, worsened by the similarly swathed hero now seated before him—a cruelty, to the pain that now radiated in him, “W-Well enough, hero.” Hades’ voice cracked as he pulled away from her outstretched hand, eyes narrowing, “Let us make haste. Your Scions will be concerned, will they not?”

Emilia’s expression tightened into cool, distant annoyance as he pushed her away, standing, “They will be, _yes_, but I asked if you were _alright_.” Her tone softened as he straightened, at least slightly, “I can carry you, if you’re not feeling well?”

Hades brows shot upwards. Had he not been still, he surely would have tripped, solidifying her apparent concern for his well-being. It sickened him to hear it—“As honored as some may be by the prospect, _hero,” _He scowled, “I can make do on my own, _thank you_.”

“…Alright then.” She stood coolly, meeting his gaze with an air of stoic indifference. He scoffed as she brushed by, stalking forward to the paths they’d taken just prior. “Keep up then, _Ascian_.”

_._

Hades took in a deep breath, ascending the first of the Crystal Tower’s many, winding staircases. The two Scions that’d accompanied he and the Warrior of Light dismissed themselves of him once safe within the crystalline doors, the hero doing much of the same. He’d already begun the trek to his rooms as they’d called back to him, but as he continued, he could hear them instruct that the next watch would come to fetch him along the way.

In simpler terms, it was a threat to ensure he was not…up to anything, though he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. ‘Twas a valid enough precaution—had he been in a better state it was true, he would have happily explored the floors between his chambers and the foyer. He had questions for the Exarch and probing about the Tower would perhaps give him leverage in that conversation, but again, that excursion could wait. The prospect of a cot, uncomfortable though it may be, was much more enticing than standing upon his legs any longer.

His feet and chest ached painfully, more so as he ascended each coupling of stairs. The cold air had done little good for his lungs, particularly with the wound that rested just beneath them. It’d healed, scarred now, but with a harsh breath or quick pull of the torso, it flared just as hot as it had when exposed and raw. His hands, in particular, seemed to loathe the chilling temperature of Norvrandt, more so as the warmth of the Tower began to settle back to his bones. It was still…calming to have had this evening of repose, but cold nonetheless. The walking had been pleasant to his mind, view picturesque—in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around to fully experience the seasons of the First. Fall would be lovely, he imagined, considering the taint that’d already taken to the trees.

Hades scowled, plateauing upon a long stretch of crystalline hallway. Frivolous thoughts; be it he was permitted on likewise excursions. He needed to formulate a plan, a course for himself now that he was disposed of Zodiark and his temperment. The longer he spent with the Scions, their hero, the more he felt he would begin to falter to their cause, their Light, and he loathed the prospect. His aether, for one, was still a particular issue of which he needed to address, not to mention his apparent lack of a physical weapon, or physical ability. The problem was Hades was at a loss for how to proceed with those topics, let alone the hero’s sudden interrogations. Likely would she be to chaperone him again, inside or outside of the Crystarium, and if she continued with her route of questioning eventually, he knew, they would draw upon the subject of Amaurot.

He could always tell her the condensed version of what he’d retold for her Summoner comrade, a few full truths sprinkled between the half ones. It would service him enough, he supposed, but he doubted that she’d be content with just that superficial knowledge, particularly if she began to spend more time with him. Lost of memory she may be, he knew she was certainly not naïve to his past, his tendencies for bending the truth or manipulation. He didn’t know how much he could rely on himself either, particularly if his mind began to drudge up more of his time with Persephone. If her soul’s presence was to blame, every meeting would prove a test of will, focus.

Of course Hades couldn’t very well tell her of the dialogue she’d shared with the shades in Amaurot, which he knew she would ask of him be it he began to explain their visit there. He hadn’t watched her during every conversation or course she’d taken whilst exploring the city anyway, he didn’t need to at the time. Any one of her pesky Scions could have popped their nose where it didn’t belong, however, find some information he may have missed, forgotten. It was frustrating, being stuck with the knowledge that they could have gained the upper hand, but he just needed to be methodical.

Having her gain a note for audience, traverse and immerse herself amongst his culture, their story—he could start there, gather his cause for trying to gain the Scion’s empathy. He’d spoken of an alliance between the children of Hydaelyn and Ascian's, so taking a route of parlay would fit with what she knew of his purpose on the First, for following and aiding them.

Hades released a breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding. If he thought back to it, the signs of her past were there throughout their journey together, particularly more present knowing what he knew now. He’d been correct in thinking that Zodiark’s whisperings swayed him from recognizing her, Elidibus and Lahabrea aided to distract and convince him otherwise as well. He should feel angry, he did before, but he almost felt…sympathy for his friends, brothers—they didn’t have a choice, nor could he even do anything had he of known the assumptions to be true.

Even now he couldn’t recall every moment in which he may have felt her soul, seen glimpses of its shattered, glowing form—but she was here now, and he was aware. Free or not, he would never be in a state or right to tell her of his knowledge, wouldn’t be until, mayhap, it was wrenched from his cold, dead hands. To the matter at hand, Hades could just tell her what he knew; without the temperment of his Father rampaging at the forefront of his mind, the end of their tale in the Tempest was an obscure enough one to give him just a modicum of flexibility in the retelling. She would be more likely to accept an ambiguous truth, he felt, rather than the medley he’d formed for the other miqo’te. It’d work well enough.

His previous self simply wished to relay and enlighten these foolhardy shards of what once was, what could have been again. He’d start his tale here. If she asked further, he would say he sought the Scions and she to strike a bargain, and if they proved their worth, he’d usher them towards the Rejoining alongside his brethren. If their blindness to their Primal’s manipulation sullied their empathy, realization for the depth of his loss, then he’d simply of vanquished them upon the stage of Amaurot. He’d explain that the backdrop of the city was necessary, they needed to understand what _they _had done, who they had murdered, destroyed, in the name of Hydaelyn. Each side of this coin was not without extreme sacrifice—Zodiark was just as twisted and manipulative as their Mother and he would speak of it again, since the murals didn’t seem to provide them enough of an understanding.

The Warrior of Light would likely know, or come to recollect, everything he’d say to her. The tale he began to retell in his mind fit with the Scions, her, interpretation of him, their perception of his actions, pain, even if not all of what they believed was true. It was whimsy, or exhaustion, that broke his thoughts from that course but he did consider…Perhaps in the deepest, warped shard of himself he’d…he’d even once sculpted that recreation of Amaurot to fill the void in him. With eons of isolation, deliverance, he could fathom he’d done so as an elegy to that cesious soul, to her—she fell there, after all. Of course Hades would never be sure, having been lost of his own will, thoughts, for so long, but now…now he hoped in a small, perverse part of himself that that was indeed the case. He owed Persephone that much.

“Tch—” The Ascian nearly tripped as he came the plateau of another stair landing.

A hot, white pain flared from beneath his skull, ebbing and spreading outward to the area behind his right eye and temple. It was a familiar feeling, a symptom that’d begun to grow with every questioning or retrospective thought he gave to Zodiark’s purpose, _his _purpose. He’d realized it since his previous session with the Warrior’s soul, when he’d unwound and retreated in upon himself in consternation and…self-harm. The nosebleeds were less frequent now, but the crippling migraines always came regardless of the manner in which he’d considered the Father’s word.

Hades clenched his jaw, closing his eyes from the bright, iridescent lighting the Tower used to illuminate the halls. Until he could make it to his rooms holding tension in his teeth and face would allow him to keep from doubling over with the pain. The last thing he wanted was for one of the Scions to come upon him in that state—he didn’t need their jabbing comments, nor concern, not now. Slowly, carefully, he rested his hip against the railing of the stairwell, placing his weight upon it for support and guidance. As he began to ascend, the Ancient lowered a bandaged hand to ghost atop the banisters surface, reaching and feeling for any disturbance that may hinder his climb. It hurt, less so than his head, but with his fingertips he could feel the curve of crystal and gauge his course, even with his eyes closed.

.

Yvette sighed as she stretched out upon the ground of the apartment floor, placing her half-eaten croissant back upon the plate by her side. Her limbs extended from top and bottom, hands reaching out past the top of her head with a long, satisfying ‘_pop’_. Her miqo’te comrade chuckled at the gesture, watching as she relaxed back against the ground with yet another sigh, “Eaten your fill already?”

“No,” The dark-haired au’ra scowled, glaring up to the ceiling as she stilled. The pair had long since packed away their materials for their journey, settling upon a filled satchel and bedroll a piece. The camping resources would probably prove to be of no use, but if the two needed to travel to speak with the Alliance a night or two in the forest may prove to be necessary. “But Emilia probably hasn’t had anything today.”

D’ve considered this, frowning in turn. “I would probably wager that’s true.”

Yvette pouted, rolling her head to look upon her friend. “She’s probably upset, you know.”

Ryne shuffled uncomfortably between the two of them, poking at the sweet-roll tucked stickily between her fingers. At the Warrior of Light’s earlier consent the Oracle had left Thancred early from dinner, retiring to the Pendants in hopes of stories and tales from the three heroes, two of which now sat before her. She’d even found her slippers, “I…I think she should come back soon. It’s getting late after all.”

As if on cue, the door to the hero’s room swung open. The trio’s eyes shot up to the intrusion, meeting equally with Emilia’s own. A quiet pass of silence hung as she stood in the doorway, her air of exhaustion and cool annoyance falling away to an aura of confused, pleasant, surprise. She cleared her throat, “Hm…Well.”

“Speak of the devil and she arrives,” Yvette sat up, crossing her arms atop her bent knees. “Just where has she _been_, I wonder?”

The brown-haired miqo’te’s face fell, watching as their eyes fell to her attire, back—of course they’d notice the sword. “I was out.” She gave the au’ra Bard a quiet look of reassurance, begging her not to press the conversation further. After a measure, the latter rolled her eyes and moved back to her croissant, taking the last of it in a single bite. Emilia moved towards her wardrobe, content in that she’d managed to avoid their questions, at least for a little while longer. Quickly, she began unweaving the ties and latches to her outfit, placing the plates and leather in folded bundles atop the shelf near her knees. She glanced back over her shoulder, “I see you guys have made yourselves comfortable.”

“Damn right we have.” D’ve chimed, wrapping an affectionate arm around Ryne’s small shoulders. The girl gasped as she was brought into his side, “And look who’s with us!”

The Oracle fidgeted nervously, a flush coming to her cheeks. She’d dressed in a simple cotton nightgown, colored in a soft mint and embellished with equally toned needlework. “I-I wasn’t sure i-if tonight was okay, a-after…earlier.” Her eyes fell from the hero’s in shame. “I…I asked Thancred, he said to check with you, but y-you weren’t in and--”

“It’s fine, Ryne,” Emilia dropped the last of her regalia atop the pile and sauntered over to the group. She’d elected to remain in the red blouse and tights awhile longer, at least until they were settled for bed. Gently, she ruffled the top of the girl’s bright red hair, “So long as Thancred doesn’t burst in in the middle of the night to look for you, you are welcome to my rooms.”

She beamed as the girl looked up at her, remnants of sweet roll stuck to the corners of her mouth. Emilia felt the urge, for a brief moment, to wipe it away and clean her as a mother, sister, would, but the look of it stilled her. Ryne looked so happy, radiant, and for one brief, flickering moment, the hero wondered if all kids held that same innocent quality to their smiles as she did.

“Have you eaten, Emilia?” D’ve asked, raising a brow.

With a grunt, the Dark Knight bent and took a seat across from her comrades. It took her a few moments to settle fully, deep soreness and pulling wounds preventing her from bending movements of grace or gentleness, but she managed well enough. Slowly, Emilia leaned back atop the cushions that’d been placed about the floor, sighing, “No,” She waved a hand, “But I’m not hungry.”

Yvette scoffed and grabbed the plate of pastries by her side, shoving it towards her. “I don’t care. Eat one.”

Emilia met her gaze with a flat look, “I’m alright.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” The au’ra received her with a look of the same. “Eat one.”

She pressed a palm against the rim of the plate, pushing it away gently. “I’m _fine_.”

“If you don’t eat, the doctors will be on you.” Yvette glared, “And if they’re not, _I most certainly will be_. Eat one, you stubborn woman.”

Emilia rolled her eyes theatrically, peeling away half of a powdered, chocolate croissant that rested near the plates side. With an air of purposeful movement, she looked the au’ra in the eye, paused, and shoved the chunk of the pastry into her mouth. “Whappeh wnow?”

Ryne chuckled from D’ve’s side, he himself scrunching in disgust. “I think we would have been alright with you eating it slowly…” He shook his head disapprovingly, “But far be it from me to tell the great _Warrior of Light _how to eat her food.”

Yvette shook her head, lowering the plate and reclining back to the floor. “Perhaps you should. All this fighting of Sin Eaters and such seems to have dulled her manners.”

“My wmanners ‘er jus’ fwine.” The Warrior of Light insisted, crossing her arms. “I twold ‘ye I whasn’t hwungry.

D’ve made an exasperated sigh, holding up his hands, “_Please_, finish chewing before you start talking.”

Emilia glared after him but managed to swallow the pastry all in the same. As she finished, Ryne uncurled from alongside the miqo’te and excused herself to have a wash at the sink. “I suppose you’ll tell us where you were later,” Yvette eyed the two of her friends as the girl walked away. “Has she been coming by often?”

“She comes by for stories.” She replied, “D’ve took to telling her about the Source while I was healing, so she’s been staying some nights for those. Depending on Thancred, and what he’s up to, of course.”

The two women sent D’ve a knowing, sly look, but it went completely unnoticed by the latter. “What?”

“Oh nothing.” Yvette chuckled, “Go on then, what kind of stories have you told her?”

Emilia turned her head in consideration. She hadn’t heard every recounting the Summoner told, nor did she know to what depth he’d gone, but she had been conscious for a few. “I know D’ve told her of Ishgard, when we met with Sidguru and the moogles. The Alliance, Tataru and Krile, some of the recent Primals, though that’s about it.”

D’ve grinned. “That’s some of it, yes.”

Yvette raised a brow as Ryne came back to their group, seating herself upon one of the cushions. “Then regale us with another of your tales, _master word-weaver_, I’m anxious to hear.”

.

The Warrior of Light shuddered as she gathered the last of her attire, folding it and placing it atop the others resting near her wardrobe. She’d swapped her armor for a simple top, warm and long sleeved, with equally comfortable silk bottoms each in a shade of matte navy. Emilia ran her hands atop the hem of her shirt, feeling the material between the pads of her fingers with an air of thoughtfulness. The others had long since fallen asleep, each resting comfortably near the large window in her foyer. She’d offered the bed, but D’ve insisted on “camping out” atop the cushions and blankets they’d had delivered to her room, and…well, she wasn’t really going to argue with him. Ryne seemed overjoyed at the prospect of watching the stars, Yvette all too happy to oblige her questions of their constellations with her own knowledge of Astrology.

Emilia looked up, gazing over at the group that’d cozied up alongside each other. D’ve lay nuzzled into curled ball, tucked against Yvette’s back who in turn folded on her side, an affectionate arm draped atop the snoring Oracle. All of them had their faces turned such that they still appeared to lay facing that of the night sky—only upon inspection of their slow breathing and closed eyes would one notice their slumber. The Warrior of Light smiled, genuine amongst the canvas of her pale, tired face.

It was amusing how strongly they’d each taken to Ryne, all different but all with their own intense need to protect her, cherish her. The other two had yet to hear the tale of her imprisonment, the knowledge that this reincarnation of Minfilia had been trapped away amongst a tower, a _princess_ of Eulmore. D’ve may have some understanding, considering Thancred’s seeming closeness with the miqo’te, but she doubted the Hyur had broached the subject unless forced. With a stretch, the brown-haired hero bent to sit at the edge of her bed, looking back down at her hands.

The shaking that’d taken to her since her recovery had lessened, at least in its intensity. She was glad for it, frankly she was beginning to grow tired of others concern for its meaning—as she told them, her muscles were weak, they simply needed to recover. With a sigh, the Warrior of Light hung her head. Somehow, she didn't particularly think that was the entire reason, but she, too, didn't wish to dwell on it. Once the others would leave, she could always go out and train. A tired mind was often better in her case, at least exhausting herself in routines and practice could afford her that much. She needed to regain her strength anyway, such that this upcoming…”absence-in-action” would never happen to her again.

Emilia felt her teeth bite down into her lower lip. She should be going, if anything as a guard against Zenos’ potential appearance. With her there, he could focus on she and she alone, not that he wouldn’t anyway. Since their first meeting the Garlean Prince held an almost perverse obsession with hunting her, battling her, and she couldn’t afford for the others to be caught in the crossfire. If he heard that she was no longer on his star, then there was a possibility he’d take it out upon those closest to her—Yvette and D’ve being those in the immediate circle. The hero bit down harder, drawing blood up to the surface of her mouth. 

She was the **_godsdamned_** Warrior of Light, the Champion of Hydaelyn. Everyone saw fit to throw those titles in her face; Primal Slayer, Savior of Ishgard, vanquisher of Ascians and here she was; stuck, useless, and _shaking. _How they’d laugh, mock, seeing her in this state of disarray.

With a snarl the hero clenched her fists and jolted up from her bed_. _Looking up to her sleeping comrades, Emilia quickly gathered her boots from the bottom of her bed, slipping them over her sockless feet with a carefully practiced silence. Once settled, the hero slipped down her stairs and made for the door of her apartments, grabbing her sword on the way. At least a tired mind was so much better than the self-loathing piece of shite she was stuck with currently.

Quickly, the miqo’te tied her belts atop her chest and latched the heavy greatsword upon her back. With another glance to her friends, she eased the door back closed, hinging the lock such that the click would remain quiet amongst the already soundless corridor. Once closed, she turned and launched herself over the terrace railing, landing feet-first upon the ground below with a quick, paranoid glance about either side of the mooring. Good, the Scions had stopped keeping watch outside of her door.

With a deep breath Emilia sprinted on, running across the markets and cafes, making no pause until she reached the gates of the Crystarium’s borders. A few guards still made their patrols, even at this hour, but she bolted past before they could finish their pathing back to the center staircase.

The cold air stung against her skin, penetrating the thin layers of clothing she’d originally dressed in for sleep. Had she thought of it, she would have made for a training dummy or something likewise on she and the Ascian’s trip back to the Tower, but she was anxious to be free from his presence. Since their previous session of “soul repair,” the hero had been watchful of the ways in which Emet-Selch carried himself, or the lack thereof. The haughty attitude still hung about him, particularly when in the company of the Scions, but the past few times she’d been near him he’d seemed…different. She couldn’t place it at least, not until tonight.

He knew something, _saw _something—she could see it in the way he looked at her, talked to her. Emilia couldn’t remember, at least entirely, how he’d acted before their battle in the Tempest, but she knew well-enough that it was, at its very fundamental, wrong. She could recall moments in which he’d provided her with ambiguous dialogue, particularly when in the Greatwood, though now that she tried to consider it, he had been opaque all along. He'd provide strange answers to questions she thought right to ask, or curious enough she supposed, but even they suited the same field of unclear meaning. The staring and quiet brooding, well, that was different, new—but why? Was it the wound in her soul?

Emet-Selch could see it, after all. She didn’t know how, the others had just assumed he of the same likeness as Y’shtola and Krile, but that could explain the reasons in which she caught him staring at her. Not entirely, but if that large of a hole stood at her core, she supposed it would appear distracting to those with an aetheric sight. The hero panted as she drew to the bottom of the stairs, turning and launching herself off into the surrounding trees.

She could continue questioning him, considering she would have to remain stuck upon the First, at least for the time-being. Emet-Selch would be unlikely to regain his aethereal powers any time soon so his absence was of naught to fear as well, but she needed to be careful. Unexplained resurrection, even from Hydaelyn, was extremely unlikely and even if she had provided an answer, the Ascian had made well to keep to himself any knowledge he knew on the subject. She hadn’t considered before, but Emilia expected Elidibus could yet intervene—it was against his code of instigation, mayhap, being the apparent Emissary, but it was only a matter of time. A paragon of the Ascians resurrected, and in the name of the one they so vehemently opposed, would very well carry back to him, particularly if the communities of the First began to recognize Emet-Selch for what or who he was. Gossip would spread—if just one thrall caught wind of it, well…they’d have to be prepared. 

Emilia began to slow, gasping for breath as she stalked amongst the littering of Lakeland’s freshly turned autumnal trees. Gingerly the hero clutched a hand over her breast, pressing downward in hopes that the pressure would allow her heart to stop rattling, chest to stop burning. It’d been awhile since she’d been able to run that hard or that far, and in retrospect she could have settled for a brisk walk once free of the gates. Her anger pushed her on, however, so for that she supposed she couldn’t fault herself too much—the deed was done and she’d never really been one to handle her anger well.

As a means to show her worth to the mercenaries hunting the previous Warriors of Light, their shades anyway, each hunter had brought her to Lakelands forests to battle. If the prey they searched for was in the location they’d hoped, the duo would begin their palaver there but if not, she and the selected would come here, to the forest. Upon her request the Exarch had graciously commissioned a trio of striking dummies for she and the guild, placing them within the clearing she now strode upon. Each of the set of three were imbued with some form of aethereal magicks, meant to absorb attacks and elements strictly used by someone of her particular caliber. She didn’t know how, but no matter the spell or force she’d used the humanoid figure would never fall, fringe, or splay. Frankly the miqo’te didn’t really care how it was done, but at least the striking dummies provided her with a suitable target to work her routines on.

With a look of determination, Emilia reached and released the belts at her back, swinging forward her newly freed blade. The metal hummed as she brought it forward, singing in the quiet of the clearing with a resounding crack of mana and power. She steadied her breath, pushing past the pain in her ribs. Another breath, a gust of wind, and the hero lunged herself forward.

Her body twisted, airborne, as she brought headfirst the weight of the greatsword, landing it down upon the skull of what would be her target. The shielding magicks of the dummy crackled, swallowing the aether she’d imbued into the swing with a resounding, dull, clang. Emilia wasted no time, whipping her hip back and out to reproportion her weight upon her dominant leg. The hero poised her body back, leaving the blade to rest in a diagonal before her. The tip hovered just above the graveled earth, threatening in its glow beneath the moonlight.

With a shout, the Warrior of Light swung and slammed the blade to the ground, a fluorescent circle of blackened tendrils rising and falling like waves around her. The sharpened aether stabbed through the breast of her target, shattering the air with a toll of another similar ring of shielding magicks. Swiftly, Emilia danced back and swung again, and again—reveling in the feel of cold, unadulterated power that coursed about her limbs, hands.

Emilia let loose the breath from her lungs and swung harder, faster, piercing the dummy from its leg and through to its adjacent shoulder with a flaring shade of sharp, amethyst aether. Boiling adrenaline filled her veins, pumping hard against the confines of her chest. She’d missed this, the strength, the power—it would serve as a distraction, for tonight at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends!
> 
> I apologize for any who may have been anticipating a quicker update. After the end of my previous semester I had a complete burn-out emotionally and physically, so I decided to take the time off as a means to help myself heal. I appreciate, profusely, all of the love and support I've received both from media and from various social sites, including the lovely comments here. <3 I know there's not much in the way of excitement in this chapter, but I hope you guys are enjoying my attempt at fleshing out characters and building their personalities...:") 
> 
> That said, buckle in dudes.  
We have the slow-burn saucey sauce coming in and I'm so excited to start sprinkling it atop these chapters. UwU  
Please look forward to it! 
> 
> If you guys are on the search for a wonderful, inclusive, and supportive Emet/FFXIV fanfic community, I urge you to come by this discord! Be sure to mention what fic sent you - many of us lurk around AO3 with fics in this same pairing, among many MANY others! Here is the INV link ---> https://discord.gg/TT93FMD 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely betas, IRL D've and Yvette, for encouraging me even though I bug them about potential fic-canon literally ALL THE TIME. You guys are the MVPS. <3


	11. Open

Shades of rich golds and pinks were the first to stretch over the Warrior of Light’s chambers, coating the trio that laid beneath the window in a hue of elegant, iridescent light. Emilia had returned just as Lakeland had begun to awaken, the wildlife that is, and made well to change and wash before her comrades woke. Now the miqo’te sat at her dining room table, freshly cleaned and swathed in a fresh set of clothes.

She’d settled for a tunic style top today—a high collared piece with long, belle sleeves clasped at her wrists and forearms by tight, ornamented buttons. The shirt itself slit along each of her thighs, exposing the ribbed black tights and equally lengthened boots she wore beneath, the hem of it stopping around her knees. A decorum of leather belts hung in weaving pairs atop the miqo’te’s hips, pinching the cloth of the shirt together to drape the slack atop them. Weavings of silver embellished the left of her shirt and well up to her shoulder and back, almost in the style of a kimono, though the material was made of a sturdy cotton base rather than silk.

Emilia had also settled for gloves, equal in color to the remainder of her ensemble, which now held tightly to her first cup of morning coffee. The compression of the material seemed to help with the tremors in her fingers, which to her chagrin, had worsened after her evening of routines and practice. The hero looked over her friends as the sun ascended into the sky, D’ve, the first of the trio, to greet her gaze.

Slowly the miqo’te dragged himself over to her place at the table, yawning wide as he approached. He squinted, looking over Emilia’s form with a slow up and down motion of his eyes before sighing, slumping down, theatrically, and plopping into the chair adjacent the hero. “Sleep well?” Emilia inquired, sipping at her drink.

“Hnnn…” The ginger-rooted miqo’te fell forward against the tabletop, scratching at his scalp sleepily. “Need more sleep.”

“It’s a little late for that,” His mentor looked over as the au’ra and Oracle began to stretch from their bedding. Once Yvette was dressed the group would set straight for the Ocular, “You’ve a meeting to attend, rift to traverse.”

D’ve glared up at her, ears flattening, “Just because you’re not going doesn’t mean you get to be snarky, you know.”

Emilia’s lip quirked atop the rim of her glass, shoulders shrugging, “On the contrary. I feel it gives me every permission to.” She chuckled, teasing, “I mean, you were all snoring well enough. I figured with that level of _comatose_ you’d feel great this morning.”

“I didn’t snore.” He grumbled.

“Hmm,” His mentor chuckled under her breath, “I can assure you, you did.”

D’ve rested his chin on the table, “I did not.”

“I promise,” Emilia made a gesture with her hand, reaching out and poking the miqo’te’s nose with the tip of her gloved finger, “You did.”

“Oh, quit it, you two.” Yvette was now up and out from the blankets, storming over to the kitchenette with an air of purpose and clear, unadulterated annoyance. None in the group were really “morning people,” especially without their first dose of caffeine. “When did you brew the coffee, Emilia?”

The hero inclined her head back, thinking, “A bell ago, I believe.” She looked down at her cold drink and swirled around its contents, “It shouldn’t taste too old, but I can make another if you guys want something fresh.”

Yvette grumbled. “I’ll finish the last of this and you can make another, I’m sure we’ll drink it all anyway.”

Emilia nodded and excused herself from the table, moving over to gather the filter and grounds she’d need to start another pot of coffee. A few pastries still remained, savory and sweet alike, which each indulged in as they began to outfit themselves in their armors. Ryne left to begin gathering the Scions in the Ocular while the remaining heroes began to gather their bags, placing weapons and packs by the door in tandem.

Yvette had outfitted herself a new longbow, a wood based piece shaped and colored in hues of white and purple-a harp-bow, she’d called it. Her Bard attire took from the same shade as her bow, though leathers and white linens ordained the most of it—a jacket from Skalla, if Emilia remembered correctly. D’ve, as well, had himself forged a new tome for the journey; a deepshadow grimoire, blackened in base with glowing red crystals embellished upon its front cover. He’d chosen a less _conservative_ outfit than his counterparts; a Fireglass vest with fuchsia colored straps, now exposed and dangling out atop his biceps. She didn’t agree with his choice, but with the longer black pants and boots he’d chosen for his bottom suited the ensemble, at least his legs wouldn’t be cold. Regardless, it comforted the hero to know that her comrade’s equipment had been upgraded—the Exarch insisted, after all, and after the excursion in the Tempest she was inclined to the same request.

“There,” Yvette stood near the foyer, clipping her bow and arrows across her back. The weapon stood nearly as tall as she, “I think that’s the last of it.”

The Warrior of Light scowled, leaning back against the table with arms crossed. “You each have a linkpearl, yes?”

D’ve nodded, pointing to the small orb that hung by the base of his ear. Yvette mirrored the gesture, “Yup.”

Emilia nodded as well, “I don’t know if they’ll work once you’re back on the Source, but if they do,” She pointed to the earring by her right, “I can at least keep contact should anything go wrong.”

“Not that anything is _going_ to go wrong,” Yvette gestured flippantly with her hand, “We are perfectly capable of following our orders, you know.”

“Which are?” The miqo’te’s eyebrow raised.

“Really?” When the hero made no move otherwise, her companion sighed in exasperation, “Seek Tataru and Krile for updates about the Scions in Mor Dhona then speak with the Alliance about the war and Garlemald. No more, no less.”

D’ve chuckled, “Emilia, we really will be fine.”

“No more, no less,” The hero counselled, clenching her fists. The anger was returning, boiling just beneath the surface of exhaustion and fragile patience she’d built up from yesterday. “I mean it, too. Don’t go off helping townsfolk and everything, stay on task. Time moves differently here than back home.”

“Yes, _yes_,” Yvette threw her head back, groaning, “We get it.”

“I’m _reminding_ you.” Emilia scoffed, “I know how you two are.”

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Alright you two,” D’ve interjected, “Now that we are all sorted, we need to head to the Ocular. The Scions should be there by now.”

Emilia turned her head from her comrades, fixing her gaze to the wall. She’d forgotten to tell them, “If it’s all the same, I’ll say my goodbyes here.”

The two younger adventurers exchanged a look of genuine surprise. Had she been looking at them she was sure their packs had nearly fallen from their shoulders, “Wait, _why_?”

“I don’t wish to see the others right now,” The Warrior of Light murmured. Her voice betrayed her façade of stoicism, but if she went to the Ocular, particularly in this state of mind, she was sure her remaining companions would catch the heat of her frustrations. Seeing her two closest friends, family, walk unto the rift knowing what awaited them on the other side— “I’ll say what needs to be said here then I’m heading to Lakeland. I have some things to take care of there.”

“Emilia,” Yvette stepped forward, searching for the hero’s eyes, “Why don’t you want to go there with us?”

“I just don’t want to.”

Her brow furrowed, “There has to be a reason.”

“No.”

“Emilia—”

“_No_.” The cold indifference was gone. “I won’t go there to sit behind and watch, wishing I was in your place.”

“Emi,” D’ve’s knew she hated that pet-name he’d given her, but Emilia couldn’t put it to herself to tell him off for it. “You know why we are going, and you know we would have you go with us if you could.”

The Warrior of Light clenched her teeth and turned back to the two, pointed nails nearly piercing through the leather swathed atop her hands. The slits of her Sunseeker eyes were nearly invisible beneath the sheen of her irises, blazing and cold. In the morning light, their color looked nearly white. “I’m aware, but I won’t be there to hear their wishes or whatever else they wish to spray upon you before you both go.” She took in a breath, shaking, “We all know my feelings on the matter, I trust, you two more so than them. I’d rather not lose my temper in front of everyone, if it’s all the same to you.”

It wasn’t that she hated any of the Scions, she couldn’t—every one of Hydaelyn’s group were just as much a friend as they were the hero’s family. She loved and cared for them, but Emilia didn’t consent to this decision. Something was going to go wrong, she could feel it in the depths of her soul, like a nagging sensation, a warning. Regardless, she was too weak to go in their stead and…in a way she supposed that reason alone was the source of her rage. Everyone, besides herself, _recognized_ that she was weaker, more fragile, and their treatment reflected as such. “There is no need to be angry about it, Emilia, you—”

The brown-haired woman held out a tired hand, stopping the au’ra mid-sentence. “Please, just allow me this.” The heat had drained from her voice and eyes leaving behind an old and quiet fatigue, “I know my limits. I know how I’d react, and I know what they’ll say. Again, I’d rather our final words to one another be of something other than…this.”

Each of the two adventurers looked to each other, anxious at first, but after a few moments they consented to her request, setting aside their things. Together they moved forward and rather than speak, they enveloped the Warrior in a gentle, warm embrace.

.

Emet-Selch winced as he leaned back against the wall of the Ocular. When he’d been summoned by the Scions for attendance, it’d taken every measure of his being just to roll from his cot, let alone walk the path to the Tower’s visionary. No one made comment on his appearance, not like he expected them to, but he was sure this vessel was beginning to look haggard—he felt that way at least.

Now that he was standing, his back and legs screamed in violent protest. It was almost as if his mind and body were aware of his suddenly impending mortality, warning him, mocking. The topic lurked in the back of his thoughts, sure, but now it was a constant reminder of the dangers that await be it he slip his guard; sickness, aches, broken bones or malnourishment, among a few. The cold air from yesterday evening had since brought on a stuffy ache in his chest, atop the plethora of muscle twinges and soreness that already made up his foundation for the morning. At least the tower was warm, though the heat seemed to make it all the harder to move around and breathe, at least when he woke up.

The Ascian scowled as he brought a bandaged hand to his temple, massaging his hairline with gentle circular motions. The fingers beneath the gauze still stung with a very present, annoying throb, but at least he’d had them exchanged for fresh one’s last night. He could feel frustration building, accompanying his oncoming headache. How did these fragmented souls make it for so long in these states?

Hades was beginning to remember just how tedious his previous lives had been, how exhaustive, annoying and _short_. Be it he could regain a modicum of his aether he supposed he could stall more of the pressing annoyances, sickness or pain being one of them, but again he didn’t know how to move forward. Forgoing himself to absorb magicks from small, echoes of primal summons only earned him a loosening of the noose Hydaelyn put around his neck. It would take someone of immense aetheric prowess to deliver enough aether to reignite his own networks, in theory. He didn’t need a full transfer, per se, just enough that the aethereal cogs could begin to turn again, to remind his body that it had the ability to create. Hades scowled—he didn’t really have any options left to him.

The Emissary’s office and oath prevented any interference in the way of the Arch-Primals, let alone offering one of their forsaken _pawns_ the Father’s tempered power. Without his cause, or any need for it, Hades would never be able to fully take back his abilities, his self. The Architect wasn’t sure if Elidibus would even come to him if asked, broken and forsaken as he was—he was no better than those pitiful sundered souls now, after all. His comrades title, stance, forbid him from any interference regardless, so he would have to rethink his course anyway.

Hades watched on from between his fingers, observing as the Scions and company began to gather around the northern-most podium in the room. The Exarch was busying himself with the portal, whispering chants and wielding his staff, aiming to throw wide the rift’s continuum. Hades didn’t recognize the text, but he could see the ancient magicks working about the miqo’te’s crimson-hued soul. The way in which his essence flooded resembled the coloration of the space between the framework before him, bright and iridescent with light. The louder his words, the more powerful the portal grew, morphing and twisting to a brilliant, cerulean blue.

Now that he was afforded a curfew, Hades supposed he could spend a modicum of his time satisfying his curiosities regarding the Tower. Surely the Exarch would have tomes, journals, or something of the like strewn about in record of his years on the First, perhaps the Source as well. He could always ask, of course, but he doubted the hero’s company would be obliging, at least not in that topic of choice.

Come to think of it…

Hades looked around, counting the heads in the room.

Astrologian.

Exarch.

Seer.

Twins.

Child.

Loud Gunbreaker.

Mystel and dragon woman.

He’d been so tired he’d nearly forgotten to look for her.

A rush of anxiety suddenly flooded into his chest.

Surely the Warrior of Light would attend her comrades leave, she’d made such a deal of the prospect in the previous days to not. Hades clenched his teeth. He supposed the hero could be out carrying on her duties, but again, her friends had been so wary of her health; why would they just up and allow her to carry on a quest if they felt she was still in recovery? She’d seemed well enough the night prior—no signs of sickness, no visible injury or pain, but there was…something, wasn’t there?

He breathed in a slow breath, trying to push past the fog in his head. It was something to do with…her soul, yes. That’s it. Her soul had looked different, not fully, but he knew it was different…dim, perhaps? Is that how he’d describe it? There was no real reason for it to have been so, if anything her soul should have become stronger since their previous attempts at reconnecting her shards. The hero _could_ have relapsed, he supposed, but to have done so in just the span of an evening would mean she’d be on her death bed, if not already dead. That outcome was unlikely; her comrades wouldn’t leave her in that sort of state, nor did he feel any disturbance in his own soul. Connected as he was to her original shardling, surely he could sense if something profound had happened to her?

Hades lowered his hand to his throat, swallowing in an effort to clear it. Half of her charge wouldn’t be here if she was in any sort of trouble—why was he troubling himself with this, anyway? “Boy.”

The white-haired Leveilleur twins that stood just before him jumped at the sound of his voice. He, too, was a little shocked by the sound of it but he’d already given voice to his inquiry. The closest, the one that’d accompanied he and the hero the night before, turned to him with a look of perplexed bewilderment. “Emet-Selch? Did…Did you need something?”

“I have a question.” He could feel his pulse quickening beneath his fingers, an essence of dread taking root in the depths of his stomach. There was something wrong, he just…he couldn’t tell what.

“Oh, well,” Alphinaud looked to his sister for assistance, but she promptly returned her attentions to the two preparing to leave, ignoring him. The others in the room had yet to notice his conversation as well, or at least made an effort to overlook him if they did. “I…well…okay?”

Hades looked around for effect, gesturing, “I see all of your companions are here.”

Clear discomfort settled across the boy’s face, “It would seem that way, yes.”

“Though,” He raised a brow, “Is it not strange that the Warrior of Light is not?”

“Not entirely,” Alphinaud settled upon an air of suspicion, crossing his arms, “She’s not one to enjoy meetings of this sort anyway.”

“Interesting.” Hades hummed, “Considering how she’d reacted to the prospect of those two leaving before.”

Silence passed for a length between them, and for a moment the Ascian thought he’d crossed a line, “I…know the others said she wished to be alone,” Alphinaud murmured. He paused as his sister’s gaze leveled with his, a silent conversation carrying on between the two, before speaking once more. “I think she said she’d be in Lakeland for a while.”

“How long?” Hades almost flinched at how desperate his voice sounded. Why did he even want to know? If she was fine, training, questing even, then he shouldn’t feel any sort of discomfort—linked souls or not. This shard was the Warrior of Light, she has a title, name, to uphold, world to save and the like; this anxiety he was feeling was simply ridiculous.

The female twin rounded on him, “And why should you _care_, Ascian? She’s of no concern to you.” Alisaie looked back over her shoulder, glaring up at him with disgust.

When he didn’t respond, she sneered, “Unless you’ve something scheming that she _should_ be concerned with, that is.”

“Perish the thought, my dear,” He replied quickly, leveling a hand in a wave of mock surrender. This one seemed awfully protective of the Warrior, “I ask from a place of simple curiosity, ‘tis all.”

The two sat, once again, in silence, sharing looks of frustration and stubbornness between one another. After a few moments, Alphinaud placed a hand on his twin’s shoulder, nodding, “We’ll go check on her after this.”

Hades leveled his gaze, “May I join you?”

.

The Warrior of Light spun round with the momentum of her blade, slamming the brunt of it into the bodice of the mannequin. As her body rotated each spin pushed her aether into the air, allowing the magicks to hover, suspended, before each orb would erupt, striking her target with a loud, hollow crash. The dummy, in response, rung out with that same dull echo, swallowing her aether into the whole of its inhuman chest.

Emilia looked up from beneath her brow as she stilled, glaring down her target with short, panting breaths. The length of her braid was now undone, falling and mixing with the beads of sweat that stuck the layers of her hair to her cheeks and neck. She’d cast aside some of her bangs, enough to keep them from her vision as she trained, but the white and brown of it had become tangled in various clumps about her head. She clenched her teeth, pushing her breath past the wall of them with an exhausted hiss. The full plates of her armor were much heavier than the cloth from last night, more so than she’d anticipated. She could tell that the added effort was affecting her swings, making her movements slower, muscles more and more fatigued.

As the blade lay with its tip resting upon the ground, the miqo’te suddenly became aware of the quivering that’d taken to her hands. She looked down at them, grimacing at the nearly exhausted grip she held on its hilt. It was becoming harder and harder to push past, the exhaustion, worsening when more so as she quietened her movements. Without action to propel them into use, the hero was becoming aware of the newly fallen afternoon light and what that length of training was doing to her body.

** _You know you’re almost at your limit._ **

Emilia clenched her jaw and snapped her hands back down on her sword, swinging upwards. The length of the cleaver whistled through the air in immediate defiance, a trail of crimson aether following after it’s pointed tip. Any human enemy would have seen the magick as a warning, but she made no pause, hesitation. With a grunt, the hero slashed back downwards with twice the speed, placing her weight into it, and doubled the sword back in the path she’d taken for the carve. The target rung, again, swallowing the magic infused attack into its straw-filled bodice. 

** _If you continue like this, the fear and hate will consume you, Emilia. You’re not willing yourself to the darkness in an equal balance._ **

** **

“I’m willing myself _enough_,” The miqo’te snarled from under her breath, nearly collapsing as her figure landed back on the ground. Her knees caved on the impact, but the length of the blade served to keep her upright. “Go away, Fray.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle filled her head, **_I’m sure your body thinks the same. Is that why you’re shaking so much?_**

** **

“I said, _go away_,” Emilia straightened herself, panting.

**_You know I can’t, Warrior of Light. _**The tone of the voice would have almost been remorseful, had she felt he was capable of such. Thankfully she knew the shade better than she once did, **_What did I tell you in Whitebrim? _**

The miqo’te knight lifted her cleaver once more and leapt, striking the blade forward in a lance-like jab. Aether flew back from the strike, coloring the air of her movement in an amethyst, crimson hue, before the sword itself struck deep through the torso of the dummy. The momentum pushed her on until the cleaver was pressed in for more than half its original length, jammed in what would have been an instantaneous strike of death—at least to any mortal body.

** _Come, hero, what did I tell you?_ **

The mannequin rung once more, hollow and loud, but the magicks in its chest couldn’t mend the wound, not with the cleaver impaled through it. The Warrior of Light held herself limply atop the blade, leaning her head down upon its hilt for support. Her body was, quite literally, screaming in protest to the previous burst of power, scorching and raw like a newly received burn. She was edging upon an exhaustion of her aether storage, she knew. The feeling was familiar, old, particularly since her arrival on the First, but warranted in her line of work. If an innocent’s life depended on her making another swing, then the Sin Eater would fall, no matter the cost to her health.

** _Allow me to remind you._ **

Emilia was aware that the mana that resided in her core was depleted and struggling, now, to keep up with her rigorous training. Ideally, she would have practiced routines rather than power trusts, slow, meticulous strikes rather than aether fueled attacks—in her defense, she’d thought herself able to handle it. She was out of practice, of course, but the release was enough to empty her mind, calm her in the evenings and keep dreams or whatever else at bay. With D’ve and Yvette now gone, she needed to set herself back into a routine, and that included pushing the limits of her abilities.

**_I _am _you. I am everything you feel, I am everything you are, will be. _**A deep pounding began to resound between her temples, keeping pace with the heaving in her chest. **_I am what you _want, _Hero._**

“No, you’re not,” She hissed. “Stop it.”

**_Come now, too afraid to admit it to yourself? It’s been awhile, truthfully, but it is the same as the day we met. _**A chuckle, **_Lest you forget,_** **_I am the freedom from your precious Blessing. _**

** **

“I said to go _away_,” The entirety of her hair was now completely soaked through with sweat, the angle of her head serving as a reminder of such. She chose to focus on it instead, the discomfort and disgust, rather than the words of the familiar in her mind. Yes, the darkness was a release from Hydaelyn, yes it felt good to succumb to it, but those would not be admissions she’d make aloud, not openly. “I’m done talking.”

The condescending laughter picked up again, **_Oh, you are? Such a shame—I do wonder, is that weakness reason why your Mother chooses not to respond to you? _**

** **

“Your provocations won’t have an effect on me, Fray,” She pressed her head into her gauntlet, rolling it back and forth in an effort to add pressure to her skin. When her episodes vertigo worsened in the infirmary, holding her head always seemed to help re-center herself, at least to some effect. “I still need to make it back to the Pendants. I’m not going to pass out in a field.”

**_You may say that, but I see as you do, Emilia. _**The Warrior of Light winced, **_You’re nearly on the verge right now. _**

** **

“I won’t.”

** **

** _Lying doesn’t become you. Stick to lapping at the heels of your God._ **

** **

The miqo’te clenched her teeth, “Why don’t you stick to keeping quiet, hm?”

Another rumble of laughter broke in her mind, **_I would, but you seem intent to push yourself at every turn. I am here to remind you, challenge you._**

** **

“I don’t need it.”

** _Oh?_ **

** **

A bright flash of pain bloomed forth in her chest, nearly bringing the Warrior of Light to her knees. The gauntlet that’d been supporting her was now clutched in a desperate fist atop her sternum, pressing and shaking at the plate just above her heart. Something cold and foreign felt as though it was trickling into her arms, legs, loosening the grip she held with the other on her sword.

** _Come, where is your talk now?_ **

** **

“W-What are you doing?” Emilia cursed the break in her voice, but it was all she could manage in the moment. Every breath felt like needles piercing her lungs, cold and achingly painful—even the thought of talking seemed to worsen the feeling.

** _I’m intent to show you your capabilities. Don’t fight it._ **

** **

The blackness that’d begun to vignette her vision suddenly blew open, covering the world in a landscape of inky, dark ichor. Fear was lurking beneath the surface of the pain, she could feel it, rearing and howling at the opportunity to return. It was mingling and feeding the rage that’d settled deeper, throwing and lashing against her in tumultuous, raw waves.

** _That’s it. Feel it, hero. Give in._ **

Coldness swept shivers across her skin, bringing her down, hard, to her knees. Emilia cried out as her body struck the earth, her muscles now completely exhausted from beneath the armor. It took everything left within her to keep from tumbling the rest of the way down, despite the intense shaking that’d begun to ripple out across her frame. The pain, almost excruciating before, was fading into nothing more than an ache in her chest, freeing her eyes, in turn, back to the world around her.

The difference in height was disorienting, but she was no longer alone. As the hero looked up, a figure now stood just in front of her, familiar but silhouetted in dripping, black aether. Feathers, reminiscent of crows, fell and coated the earth, her, lingering before they disappeared into the air with wisps of like-colored smoke.

** _This is it, wanderer. _ **

“How…how are you here?” Emilia’s voice cracked.

**_You pushed yourself to the brink. _**Piercing amethyst eyes stared down at her from the figures face, **_I simply pressed you the rest of the way. As I said, this is the extent of your power, _our_ power._**

The Warrior of Light attempted to stand, but her body rejected the notion with an immediate vehemence. The hand that’d moved to push herself from a knee buckled and put her down to all fours, eyes facing the mud beneath. “I…I can’t get up.”

The figure before her began to laugh, **_As I can see. We may have pressed ourselves too far, in your eagerness, but the deed has been done. _**

** **

“_Your_ eagerness, you mean.” She looked up from beneath her hair, “I didn’t will you into existence, Fray.”

**_Not intentionally, _**the Dark Knight’s head tilted in thought, **_I’m aware, but this was simply an exercise. I needed to see if you were ready. _**

** **

“Ready for what?”

**_For this, _**Fray gestured around, to he and her in tandem, **_You’ve the potential to control your Darkside, Emilia. Surely even you can see the benefits?_**

** **

The miqo’te winced as she crawled back onto her knees, resting herself on her haunches. “So, this is something I can do, now? Just,” She looked the figure over, “Just _summon_ you?”

**_Potential to. You fought me tooth and nail, _**His figure knelt down in front of her, taking a knee and leveling with her gaze. **_It will take time, and patience. Even now you can’t dwell in this state, for more reasons that I need speak. _**

Emilia scowled, “How am I supposed to train this way, then? Are you just going to keep showing up?”

The blackened silhouette of her master paused, as though to consider his response, then turned his gaze to the edge of the clearing. She watched as he stood once more, **_You have guests._**

** **

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

**_You’ll understand in time, _**He chuckled. The shade was already beginning to dissipate, fading and dripping to the earth in a pile of feathers and darkened, opaque aether. Somewhere deep inside her chest, the hero could feel a warmth returning and radiating out to her arms, legs. It was comforting, but the feeling only served to remind her of the extent she’d pushed herself. **_Rest will serve you for the present. ‘Til the next, Warrior of Light._**

Emilia opened her mouth to speak but paused, swallowing her words as Fray suddenly dispersed into nothingness. He had been right, even if searching for a distraction—faintly her ears could hear the approach of voices and a crackling of grass, branches. If she had to guess, it sounded close to the paths she’d taken earlier that same morning. The hero rolled her eyes—it would have served her to at least have sent word to the Scions of her training. Ryne knew and was supposed to have told the others, but it was more than likely that Lyna had now taken orders from the Exarch, who didn’t agree with the fact that she’d been here all morning…and afternoon…verging on evening.

Slowly, the hero worked herself up from the ground. She wobbled unsteadily, worsening as weight was once again applied to her legs, but eventually she found enough balance to hold herself on the cleaver’s hilt. The muscles in her legs quivered, nearly spent, but propped as she was Emilia didn’t think she would fall over, at least not right away.

“By the Twelve, there you are!” The miqo’te turned her head at the familiar sound, surprised to see Ryne, Alisaie, and Thancred emerge into the clearing.

“Seven _hells_, what did you _do_?” The white-haired Hyur rushed directly to her side, placing his arm beneath the backs of her shoulder blades. She’d almost flinched away from the touch, until his gaze shifted from her face to the large, stuck greatsword, “How in the hell did you jam that in here?”

“Carve and split,” Emilia grunted sourly, “But less split and more…carve.”

Alisaie shook her head, placing her hands upon her hips as she, too, came to stand alongside her, “Just what did you think you were doing?”

“Training.”

Ryne chuckled, “I mean really, you could have at least sent word to us,” The accusatory tone of the elezen struck her hard, “You didn’t even mention where you were going. We’ve a whole group out trying to look for you, you know.”

The miqo’te’s eyes widened before she lowered her gaze, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. That was the last thing she’d wanted. “But I’m fine.”

“I-It’s alright, Emilia. We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” The Oracle sent her a bright smile, nudging Alisaie’s arm. The taller glared down at her, huffing, “That’s all that matters.”

“If she’d stop pushing herself so far, we wouldn’t have to keep asking if she _is_,” Alisaie snapped, rolling her eyes, “Really, you just start to heal and you’re out here in full armor, alone. If you wanted to train you could have had one of us come with you.”

“I needed something stationary to work with, having a sparring partner just adds more hassle and none of you would have let me work alone. Besides,” The hero followed her gaze to her cleaver, shrugging, “I was just about to head back anyway, before this.”

To make her point, Emilia pressed off of her sword and made to stand straight. The shift in weight, however, buckled her knees and sent the hero tumbling, clumsily, forward. The trio, fortunately, moved in immediate anticipation of such, reaching out in just enough time to catch her arms and front before she fell.

A hot flush of embarrassment bloomed firmly upon her cheeks. She didn’t expect that to happen. “I’m fine.” Emilia grunted as the others moved her backwards, supporting her limbs. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Thancred sighed and bent, gesturing down to her legs with an annoyed flip of his hand. “Hop, I’m carrying you.”

The hero’s eyes widened, “W-wait, w-what?”

The white-haired hyur wasted no time, looking up to Alisaie, who in turn began to move to the Warrior of Light’s legs. Ryne began to laugh in the background, “Oh, oh no you—_HEY_!”

Together, the two thrust the miqo’te’s limbs up from the ground and onto the support of Thancred’s forearm and shoulder. Gently, well as much as he could manage with her struggling, the Gunblade wielder shifted the hero’s body into a bridal style hold, supporting her head against his collarbone. The armor proved to be slightly awkward, but once she’d settled he began to walk from the clearing, chuckling under his breath, “Next time you’ll be more careful, then I won’t have to do this."

“You don’t have to do this _anyway_,” Ryne grinned as the miqo’te’s ears flattened against her head, face flushed fully into a brilliant shade of crimson. The fluffed length of the hero’s tail was curled into a protective coil against her leg, “_Godsdamnit, put me down, Thancred!_”

He grinned. “No.”

Alisaie nudged the Oracle as they began to walk through the trees, ignoring the struggling from their comrade. “A fitting punishment for her, I think. We’ll have to remember this.”

Emilia sent a glare over the Hyur’s shoulder, “Don’t.”

The elezen beamed, “Oh, but then again I won’t have to.” She pointed to the stairwell that now loomed ahead of them. In the distance, Emilia could see the silhouettes of their comrades and guard standing atop, “The others will be sure we don’t forget.”

She stopped protesting, but overwhelming embarrassment overtook the hero as the trio ascended and broached through the threshold of the Crystarium’s gates. Had she the strength, Emilia would have teleported from the Hyur’s grasp and into the safety of her apartments; at least there she could avoid the excuses and apologies she’d have to make for wasting all of their time. At least there, she wouldn’t be in this situation at all, she could be curled in bed, sleeping.

Everyone had gathered and everyone watched on in amusement at her precarious state, chuckles and pleasant smiles greeting her as they approached. “I suppose it’s safe to call of our search,” Lyna stood at the forefront of her comrades, hands placed speculatively upon her armored hips. “Where was she?”

“Training with the mannequins near the Weathering.” Thancred stated, “Nearly unconscious.”

“I see,” The Viera’s purple-hued gaze fell over the hero, taking in her battered appearance. She almost thought she’d say more before she turned, “I’ll go alert the Exarch, then.”

Emilia averted her eyes as the guard began to saunter back towards the Crystal Tower. She was sure her face was nearly boiling over in shades of red, the heat made it feel like it was, anyway. Never, not when she was at her worst—drunken, beaten, burned, slandered—did her companions ever carry her, _especially_ like this. Ser Aymeric had insisted, once, but no one before and no one since. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the hero felt D’ve could have something to do with the current situation she’d been put in, he knowing best how she would act in light of their absence. It was a little farfetched, but she wouldn’t put it past that conniving Summoner to have his partner embarrass her into compliance and feigning a sense of self-responsibility.

“Thancred, put me _down_.” Emilia hissed under her breath, tugging on the white of the Gunbreaker’s collar. “I can walk, put me down. _Now_.”

“No, you can’t.” The Hyur raised an eyebrow, grinning. “If you couldn’t a few minutes ago, you won’t be able to without the adrenaline. Quit your struggling.”

“Thou knowest not to push thyself to this point, Champion of Light.” Urianger had now walked up to place his palm upon the hero’s face. She scrunched her nose in surprise, startled to feel the cool of his skin testing the feel of her forehead and cheeks. The Astrologian only paused in his ministrations when he took note of her hands, which clenched, quivering, upon Thancred’s collar. “Thine aether is nearly depleted.”

“She’ll need someone to watch her through the night,” Y’shtola shook her head, “I can see it. The networks are barely moving. At this rate she’s going to go into shock from it.”

Emilia rolled her head to the side, surprised to find the remainder of her company standing a few steps from she and her carrier. Alphinaud, Y’shtola, and the…the _Ascian_? Her brow furrowed as Emet-Selch’s gaze met with her own, bright and speculatively gold between the other array of eyes which now beheld her. The hero could feel a coloring of shame mix with her embarrassment; why in the hell had he been brought here?

She cursed under her breath. Twice now she’d shown herself to, what they could only assume was still an enemy, in a fit of pitiful, sorry fatigue. She was the _Warrior of Light. _Eikon slayer, Champion of Hydaelyn and Blade of Doma, Deliverer of the Dragonsong War, Warrior of Darkness and Ascian-slayer, and…well, here she was. Twice, now, put into a situation such as this, and _twice_, now, she’d seen this Paragon looking at her with something akin to concern, almost relief, and…something else she just couldn’t place. It was unsettling, infuriating, “Why in the hell are all of you here?” Emilia snapped, tearing her gaze up to the Astrologian, “I’m fine, I didn’t need..._this_.”

“We were inclined to do so, my friend.” Urianger replied. “And full glad am I that we were.”

Her brow furrowed, “Inclined?”

“Forewarned,” Alphinaud chimed in, stepping forward. “We were fully prepared to allow you a moment for yourself, after…after everything, but…well, Emet-Selch insisted we intervene.”

It felt like the wind had been knocked out from her lungs. “What did you just say?”

The Ascian made a short bow of his head, he, too, stepping back into her line of sight. Those around and supporting her tensed at the action, and she could feel that same hesitation settling within herself as well.  
He was the enemy.  
He was an Ascian.  
Reformed or not, that couldn’t excuse…that couldn’t excuse all of the other things she felt she knew. Didn’t he manipulate her? Console and guide her towards the path of becoming a Lightwarden, knowing full well what would come be it she attempted to take in Vauthry’s soul? She should feel this way, afraid. Hesitant, speculative, but…the intensity of his amber gold eyes made her uncomfortable, even a little self-conscious.

He said he was helping them, resurrected for Hydaelyn’s purpose. She could trust him. The Mother did—but wasn’t it strange? How’d he know that she’d used up a majority of her aether, mana? “Apologies, Warrior of Light, but I had…” Emet-Selch paused, searching for the words. “I had a feeling, I believe you mortals call it. With recent happenings I felt that the...sudden _forestallment_ in your aether deserved your comrades’ attention.”

Emilia scowled, releasing the hand that’d nearly fallen numb at Thancred’s collar. Did that mean he could also sense Fray? “You said you felt what happened with my aether?”

He considered this, “Saw, more like, but in lament terms one could say that, yes.”

The others seemed to quiet at his response, and once again the hero was reminded of the fact that’d he’d been able to also “_see_” the fracturing in her chest. He’d been brought back as a mortal, encased in the body of Solus, still, but she supposed she hadn’t really asked just what powers he still retained from their…end. She was perhaps broaching upon the subject, considering how far they’d gotten in her earlier interrogations, but Emilia supposed she could inquire upon it the next time. If he’d be helping them, as he seemed so ready to do, then she needed to solidify a manner of trust and knowledge about him, at least to some extent.

“…And full glad are we for Emet-Selch’s interference.” Alisaie interjected, placing a hand on her hip. She glared coolly at the Ascian, “Though he has yet to explain just how he knew. Or _saw _you, rather.”

A slight smirk colored the accused’s lips, “And I need not. You have her returned, that’s well enough.”

Emilia frowned, looking back to him. Before she could catch herself, the hero could feel her mouth forming the words, “but I am curious,” before they were actually spoken, much to her horror, aloud.

Emet-Selch and the elezen paused, the other Scions now included, before looking back to her with raised brows. A tense, awkward stillness suddenly hung in the air, and for a moment she’d almost thought it to have been a thought, but their reactions confirmed it.

A childish admittance, she realized, almost a…whinny complaint? He had no reason to tell her, particularly if it was something he wished not to share with the others, and she felt her face flush at the understanding of it. Honestly, was she losing her sense of propriety and sanity? 

Still yet, the Ascian seemed to be considering her outburst. “If…if you really wish to know, I…” He paused again. “I suppose I can explain the concept to you.”

Emilia looked back at him, wide eyed. “I…”

“Wait, that simply?” Alisaie looked flabbergasted, “Seriously?”

Something in Emet-Selch’s gaze hardened, “I agreed to work with your ilk. I suppose I can at least tell you of this much.” The others seemed to be sharing the elezen’s sentiment.

As he sighed, Y’shtola smirked alongside him, “It is quite odd that you choose now to be forthcoming, rather than in the Ocular.”

“Well,” He scowled, but chose to ignore the seer. “You’ve all borne witness to Amaurot. If you—”

Emilia felt like everything in the world suddenly stopped, like she’d plummeted into a bat of cold, dark water. Everything felt raw, her skin, her breath, sight, hearing. Her limbs were cold, shivering, and as she sat in the arms of the Gunbreaker, she could feel a layer of equally callous sweat spread over her body. “Am…” It felt like a forbidden word. Something painful. Bad. “Ama…ur…”

Burning buildings.

Bodies.

Broken masks and horrible, gut-wrenching screams.

“Amaur…t?”

Hythlodaeus?

Spires and beautiful, iridescent blue lights.

Streets with corpses.

Creations.

Malformed beasts and fire.

Blood.

Amaurot.

Zodiark.

_Amaurot. _

_Hydaelyn._

“Amaurot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delayed post, my friends. Graduate school is kicking me here at the beginning of the semester...plus I've been sort of waiting for 5.2 to launch before I delve too deeply into more story/plot, that way I can try to keep true to a few of the Eden/MSQ ideas that will be shared once I play through. Super excited to see what SE gives us this patch!! 
> 
> I was also really on the fence about the end of this chapter, because...well, I wasn't confident it was what I wanted, but I'd love to hear what you guys think of it. :") 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!!~ <3 
> 
> If you'd like to see a little doodle of Emilia's first outfit in this chapter or other Emilia/D've/Yvette art, feel free to check my twitter, I post the arts there --> https://twitter.com/MagicaAria
> 
> Also, if you guys are on the search for a wonderful, inclusive, and supportive Emet/FFXIV fanfic community, I urge you to come by and join this discord! Be sure to mention what fic sent you - many of us lurk around AO3 with fics in this same pairing, among many many MANY others! Here is the INV link for any interested friends! ---> https://discord.gg/TT93FMD


	12. Palaver

Emet-Selch watched on as the hero’s charge began working over her unconscious form, now lain like a corpse across the surface of her bed. It had been a tense walk from the courtyard to the Pendants, more so he felt, after his verbal exchange with their Champion. Before she’d fallen unconscious that word, fixated and uttered in repetition, had settled in his stomach, burning with a strong, acrid pull of dread and fear. As he now sat idle, watching the others fret and coddle over her, the feeling became the only thing he could focus upon.

Amaurot.

She’d said she’d lost all counts of the Tempest, more so those where she and her party had been separated from one another—it was possible, he’d supposed, that the word alone would trigger some memories. Enough that she’d begun to remember _everything_? He didn’t think so.

The seer and Oracle moved past him quickly, draping the length of the hero’s body in blankets and heavy wools. As the smaller tucked the woman’s limbs beneath the cloth, the other called for a warm basin to wash the debris and chill from her face. Beside him, the Astrologian sat mulling over one of his tomes, helping when necessary, whilst the Gunbreaker and twins sat anxiously alongside at the dining table.

In a way he felt this response an overreaction. In some manner or another, Hades recalled the phenomena of aether depletion was most akin to what mortals considered the _flu_. He’d fallen ill with that at least a few times in his many lives, but it was never beyond the cure or suppuration, particularly if medicines were involved. Nothing, surely, worth calling for so much precaution and care—ah, but then again, he supposed the Warrior of Light’s health had been compromised of late.  
  
He winced. For a mortal losing that much aether would surely bring other taxations upon the body. With the recent events it _would_ be harder for her to bear; he tilted his head, considering. She was showing beginning symptoms—uncontrollable shivering, sweating, mumbling, among the few. If she woke before the night’s end, his guess would be that she’d be too weak to leave from her bed.

The Ascian reclined back into his chair, stretching out his legs. This insufferable soreness was really a hindrance—sitting or standing his muscles ached and protested, noticeable and assiduous in their cries. It would be beneficial, in some regard, to begin making walks such as the night previous more of a routine, be it this mortality persisted. How old was this vessel of his, in truth? Thirties?  
  
As he grimaced, leaning upon the arm of the chair for support, he looked back unto the bed in front of him. From this angle, he could clearly see the hero’s face, hair, fanned out in a curtain of brown and white atop her pillows. The heavy swath of blankets were tucked to her chin, masking her limbs, though the tops of her ears poked dramatically above the crown of her head.

Vaguely, somewhere in the corner of his mind, Hades wondered if Persephone had ever had a choice in the figures her soul shards inhabited. It would be curious if so, he supposed, and not far off to believe that she could have. If he looked close enough, this Warrior did herald a few of her resemblances. The brown hair, for one, was nearly an exact replica of her original shade of earthy, brunette, eyes now of the very same pale, grey blue. The white ombre, of course, was not of his love’s original, nor the…ears, tail. The placid complexion and similar enough frame, if only a few feet shorter than their kin, did, however, sign true of their likenesses.

Hades sighed, stretching and twisting his legs, satisfied by the popping sound the bones produced in turn. He didn’t know this Champion very well; in truth, it was a little presumptuous to assume that anything other than aesthetic had transferred from Persephone’s shard. He didn’t really deserve to know if anything had, either, but…some part of him _wanted_ to. Undeserved, yes, but he was curious about who this martyr was, what she’d become—did this shard enjoy similar things as she, coffees, books? Knowledge, arts? He didn’t even know her true name, did he?

As the others moved aside, exchanging washcloths and rags, his attentions drew once more to the one laying swaddled beneath them, mumbling in her sleep. The words that fell from the miqo’te’s lips didn’t seem to compare to that of “Amaurot,” which he had hoped would not be the case, but the thought that they _could _still worried him.

The seer stood from the hero’s bedside, sighing. “I think we’ve done what we can.”

Urianger looked up from his tome, watching as Emilia’s chest rose and fell betwixt the surface of blankets. Her brows were drawn into knitted thought but at least the shuddering had grown less frequent, her skin slightly warmed from its previously pale lacquer. “She doth seemeth so. Masterful work, Y’shtola.”

“Right then,” Thancred pushed off from the table and motioned for Ryne, walking towards the hero’s apartment doors, “I’ll go tell the Exarch of what’s happened. Lyna or not, he’ll want to be updated now that their Warrior of Darkness is returned. We can decide where to go from there.”

“Tell him to send for some provisions.” Y’shtola called. “She’ll need to eat when she wakes.”

The Gunbreaker gave a wave of his hand before slamming the door shut behind he and the Oracle. “I suppose I’ll accompany them.” Alphinaud responded, “We need to begin setting course for the Empty and if we are to leave soon, we’ll need some supplies sent to Ahm Areng.”

Hades watched as the Scions slowly began to filter from the room, leaving one by one until he, the seer, and the Astrologian were all that remained. It was discomforting, drawing upon the realization that he’d been left under this pair’s scrutiny, but he supposed their company was favorable to that Hyur fellow.

“Why did you agree to tell her?” The Ascian recoiled as the miqo’te’s eyes fell upon him, colorless and glazed.

“Right to it, are we?” Hades mocked, scowling as he readjusted his back to the chair behind him.

“Of course,” Her arms crossed speculatively across her chest as she spoke, “You denied our inquiries in the Ocular, yet bend to her request in an instant. I feel that serves addressing.”

The challenge in her voice put him on edge. “I’ll do so when your _Warrior of Darkness _is awake. I don’t enjoy repeating myself, dear, if it’s all the same to you.”

“That has never stopped you before.” Y’shtola’s lips quirked into a humorless smirk, a soft chuckle falling from between them, “…Color me curious, _Ascian_, but last I checked you were not so willing to be of help to us, knowledge or otherwise. Of course, not unless it held benefit to yourself.”

Hades could feel himself withdrawing.  
In all manner of truth, how was he to answer that? He didn’t understand it himself, he realized, he just…answered her. The hero seemed…vulnerable in the moment, he answered in kind, but it was ridiculous to think that that was his _entire_ reason for being so forthcoming. It was out of place, more so considering their recent foray of clashing swords, metaphorically speaking, but…he did want them to know. He did want her, her comrades, to understand what and who his people had been—that, in and of itself, could be it.

“As I see it, your collective has been just as discreet as I in your reiterations of recent events,” Hades scoffed, looking back to the miqo’te, “At least in what you’ve told to your Champion.”

The woman seemed unfazed by his accusation, “Why is it that you’ve all chosen to withhold information from her, I wonder?” When she didn’t answer he continued, “Is it fear, pity, mayhap?”

The Astrologian stood from his chair, closing the book in his lap. The sound of its heavily closing pages echoed about the apartment, “Is that what she hath told you, Ascian?”

Emet-Selch felt discomforted by the sudden tone in which the taller took. “She hinted towards something of that like, though I do find myself curious as to why she would feel that way.” He was curious as to why she had even _shared_ those concerns with him, “Considering your reaction, I take it her understanding is skewed?” 

The Astrologian and the seer’s gaze met for a moment, holding and intense in their silence. Hades watched on between them, calculating, but when Urianger spoke again, he seemed reproachful, quiet. “We felt this course best, considering the manner in which thee hath returned.”

“In other words,” He felt a well of anger begin to take root in his chest. Unjust, as this entire quarrel had nothing to do with him, but it was the idea, concept, that was upsetting. Had she not just risked her life, a multitude of times, for these very same souls standing before him, those in this Crystarium, star? “You’re manipulating her.”

Urianger paused, “What was revealed to us in Amaurot and Rak’tika needeth a greater breadth of understanding, which we had hoped to gain from thee. We aired to speak of such before we spoke to the Warrior of Light about said truths.”

Y’shtola nodded.

Hades felt his eyes widen, “And what have I to do with any of this?”

“We know not the origins of our Mother nor those of Zodiark himself, though in the Ocular thee hath warned us of their varying influences,” Urianger’s gaze settled back to him. “The murals, as well, if thine memory can service. I’ve made work of what I may, written or otherwise, and from all that I hath procured, they seem to verify thine own telling’s true enough. Both Hydaelyn and Zodiark are Primals.”

He scowled. “Yes, obviously, but what does this have to do with me? I told you everything before, you said so yourself.”

“With no challenge to this truth, we’ve reached an impasse.” He sighed, “As I have spoken before, Emet-Selch, we seeketh the same. We would have our Champion protected, but to come to this parlay we needeth gain a breadth of understanding. In each other or of the situation I know not which is best, but we needs’t do so quickly, if mine guess is correct.”

“I’ve told you what I know and that which I’ve witnessed, even as much as our history.” Emet-Selch quipped, airing on annoyed. “You and yours choose not to listen, as I remember.”

“Forgive us for not being so willing to hear out an _Ascian,” _Y’shtola snapped, then softened. “…But for what it’s worth, we are now. She too, it seems.”

Hades watched as the miqo’te gestured down to the hero. “We’ve threats and dangers which lurk upon this star and impending upon that of the Source.” Urianger spoke, “Thee stated that there were three Paragons which survived the sundering—to this I would gather this reference concerneth thine comrade, the Emissary, yes?”

His golden eyes narrowed, “…Myself, Lahabrea, and Elidibus, yes.”

The Astrologian nodded, “If thine Emissary still seeketh the Rejoining, then I and ours am well to believe our paths will cross again, mayhap soon. With his brethren believably slain one would think well that Elidibus should make to act upon such and it is for this purpose we hath felt it best to withhold what we may from our Champion. If—”

“If her foundation in Hydaelyn is shaken, if her blessing falters, then we’ve all but lost our fight.” Y’shtola interjected gravely, “She was suffused with enough Light from the wardens that she’d very nearly died, just to have hope to match _you_ in the Tempest. If we tell her the truth and she loses what faith she has left, then what is she to do against another Paragon, presumably stronger than yourself?”

Hades could feel his heart stutter, the anxiety that’d built in his stomach now present and nauseating in its strength. Their worry was validated, and shared; Elidibus, as concerned as he was for balance and his own carefully laid constructs, would have to unveil himself to repair Hades’ failure. If memory served, he’d all but finished the business he had upon the Source, with Zenos, though he couldn’t be sure how much time that would buy their Scions. Returning to the First would mean that the Emissary would pick up where he had left off, ushering this star towards its final breaths, its calamity, and inevitably the paths between he and the hero would cross. It would take time—a hopeful realization, he supposed, but it was not time they had, not with how weak the hero’s soul had become.

Their Auracite wouldn’t be enough to shatter the whole of what he knew Elidibus’ soul to be, if that was what they’d hoped to try. His essence was dense, twice so as Hades’ own, it’d take a sweltering of those tiny gems to match his power and that alone was not an option they had. Lahabrea, even himself, had been weakened from their glamours, their exchanges between hosts, Elidibus had only taken to Zenos, and for a short time at that—he would be powerful, and in every right, blazing anew upon his course.

“That is a possibility,” Hades mused. The blessing of light was powerful and there was truth in what the seer said—without Hydaelyn’s support and their blind belief, the Warrior of Light would perish, and so too would her eight shards. Unless… “Though keeping information from your Champion will only serve to muddle the metaphorical waters. She deserves to know what she is dealing with—Zodiark or Hydaelyn besides.”

The two exchanged a look, “Aware we are of the plight, as moral as you seem to perceive it, but—”

“Without being whole herself, she won’t stand a chance against the Emissary. Elidibus surely knows this, and that in itself is advantageous for him.” His eyes narrowed.

Urianger scowled, unamused, “Then we needs’t seek another solution, it seems. One that shall allow for breadth in thine knowledge, and another in which our Warrior of Light may keep upon her course, unhinged.”

His mind began to turn, considering those options left to him. He’d already made decisions, concerning his resurrection and that which he’d opted to do with this new-found life, but in what way would this benefit the Scions purpose? He could share all that he knew and it still wouldn’t be enough to match that of another Paragon, not one such as Elidibus.

Split as the Hero’s soul is, there was little left to do in the time between she and the Emissary’s collision other than search out her remaining shards. Doing so could allow her the opportunity to face him, aided by the blessing and that of her comrades, the remaining light bearing heroes. It…It would be worth it in the end, he supposed, if he could work, aid, in retrieving those remaining pieces. It was for Persephone’s sake, even if it meant he would be siding against that of his once steadfast purpose, his people—everything he had every done had been for her, after all, or at least he wanted to believe it was.

“…I’ve a proposition, but it would require audience with the Exarch.” Hades swallowed, none too keen on the thought of having to appeal to the miqo’te, particularly with their recent _history_. His throat was dry, “And thought, if I may be given the time.”

A lingering thought struck him as the Astrologian began to usher him from the hero’s chambers; if they managed to gather all of her original soul, what would become of the hero once she was whole?

.

The Armageddon was back, raging and enveloping all of which her eye could see. Corpses and masked figures, tall and frightened, lay scattered about the ground, those still living running along the paths. The language they spoke, those that were living, was as beautiful and scared as they had been in her previous dreams—the urgency with which they called to her, however, kept the hero moving, running.

Alongside either road buildings collapsed and caught flame, struck or impaled by falling stars and large, malformed creatures rising from their remains. Where her feet caught debris or rubble, the next would crush masks or squash into puddles of thick, pungent blood. Emilia cringed at the sight, sound, fighting the urge to throw-up as the scent followed her desperate sprints, continuing ahead.

The once beautiful, lavender trees were now devoid of all color, standing aflame as if torches lighting the way for those attempting to seek refuge. The Warrior of Light remembered the path, ‘twas the same as the one previous in which she’d met the red masked figures, slopping and ascending towards a large, circular hall.

She paused once atop the street, looking desperately to her left and right to find…_something_.

It was that same need, same knowing from deep within her mind that told her that she was searching for a place, someone, amongst all of this destruction. She hadn’t found it, couldn’t pinpoint it; Emilia bundled her fists to her head, gritting her teeth. The harder she tried to sort through the muddle of fog in her brain, the more intense the pain that came with it, near stabbing at the forefront of her head.

It was as if the thing that made her run, that told her she was close to what she was searching for, was also forcing her from prying too deeply, thinking too much on this…place, this person she couldn’t find. Like a memory, or a dream, that’d been fabricated, stolen, and manipulated by some outside source. The hero looked from beneath her fingers, staring down at the street. Hydaelyn could be interfering, perhaps, blocking her from delving with her Echo—she had previously, when necessary, though no experience she had had before had ever been quite this…_real_.

Emilia hissed, fingers shaking, “If this is you, Mother, then let me see it.”

No verbal or Light-based respondence came.

“I know you’ve done something,” She started, “You’ve brought him back, and took away from me what I saw in the Tempest. I want to know.”

The pain in her head suddenly flared, pressing into against the walls of her skull like a brand of hot iron. Something _was _keeping her out, then.

“I want to _know_,” Her voice cracked, throat clenching tight with the scent of smoke and burned flesh, “I want to understand what happened, where this is...Why do you keep showing it to me?!”

This wave of pain sent her to her knees, blistering and white, tearing in agony down the length of her spine. A cry had inevitably fallen from her lips, a palpable release to the sudden onset of…grief, pain, that’d taken homage in her breast. Emilia shuddered, near revolted by the foreign set of emotions that was rampaging its way through her; grief unending, pulsing sadness, loss, rejection, and…loneliness, inevitability.

The Warrior of Light held back a sob, placing her ash-ridden hands up to her eyes. A sympathetic connection, one which almost called out to her, seemed to confirm what she had been considering, concluding.  
  
This was it. That city, that place that Emet-Selch spoke of.

She could remember it, she and her comrades standing, hopeful, beneath the Ladder in Kholusia. It was like she was watching a theatre show, witnessing frames unwinding and hazy flitter across her vision, scratchy voices accompanying the characters within. They’d bid her rest, the Scions, fearful of the sweltering Light that’d threatened to break her before their meeting with Vauthry. That was right…he was the last step, the last Warden she’d meant to fight. Emet-Selch bid them to come find him, for her to come find him, once she’d descended into madness from the overabundance of Light.

The picture changed, a new scene, as the Ascian began to walk over to her at the bottom of the Ladder, haughty and arrogant, imposing as he oft was during their journey upon the First. She’d thought nothing of it, but this feeling, these emotions, recognized something in the words he’d recited, something in what he had said.

The towering spires, fair gleams of lights and architecture, magnificent and beautiful—now burning and breaking. A city, falling beneath the light of a disgusting, rotting world. Loves, friends, civilizations lost.

Amaurot.

.

D’ve grunted as his body met with the solid force of the ground. The momentum, much more than he’d anticipated, threw him down flat upon the length of his back before he could catch himself. It wasn’t necessarily painful, considering the ground was plush with grass and dirt, but the impact was still hard enough to knock what little air he had from his lungs.  
  
Both of his hands shot to his ribs, clutching in tight fists atop his stuttering chest. Faintly he could hear Yvette land alongside him, yelping as she continued, rolling and rolling until she hit against something with a hard, hollow thump. He listened as she had come to a stop, relieved that he could hear her panting, feigning to catch her breath the same as he. “Y...You…o-okay?” He mumbled.

Yvette groaned, “…Mhmm.”

Together, the pair laid upon the ground in their collective tanglement of equipment and armor, staring up at the sky as they began to settle and calm. It took a few minutes, but the two finally began to compose themselves.

“That hurt…way more than the first time,” Yvette hissed finally, “At least then we had landed on our feet.”

The miqo’te lolled his head to the side, relieved that he could now breathe normally. His au’ra comrade laid entwined at the base of an old tree, her bow and arrows strewn about in a path before her. Her attire was dirty, stained with grass and various swatches of dirt, though her hair looked the worse for wear. The disheveled state of it almost made him chuckle.

“To be fair,” He grunted, “The Exarch had been more desperate for help when we were summoned. I’m sure that makes a bit of a difference in how we arrive.”

Slowly the miqo’te began to sort himself, squinting and picking his body up from the ground. Waves of ginger-tinged aether rolled about the air, almost iridescent atop the glow of jutting, towering crystals, which stood tall in the area around them. He breathed a shaky breath, dusting off what he could of his attire, “Looks like we landed in the proper place, at least.”

Yvette looked around, smoothing her hair, “It appears that way. Silvertear, if I had my guess.”

D’ve nodded, “It wouldn’t be much of a walk to Saint Coinach’s Find, we could grab a few things there and head on into town.”

“Alright,” Yvette held up a hand, stretching for the miqo’te, “Mind helping me up?”

  
.

Hades paced about his chamber’s, wringing his hands as he waited. The bandages had now been removed, exposing the series of bruises that’d begun to heal over his knuckles and fingers. The flesh was still mangled and sensitive, but it was a relief to finally be rid of the stifling gauze. Newly removed he’d been slightly clumsy with his books, wincing if too heavy or if he used his fingers too much, but again, the gauze was gone.

With a sigh, the Ascian paused and moved over to the washing basin near the corner of his room, testing the water. It was warm, enough to bathe in without shivering, but it would still be uncomfortable considering the size and his height. Another sigh, and Hades began to set about gathering a pair of clothes for the day, ridding himself of the old. He’d been ordered a few sets of used linens, military-based like those the hero had brought him, though he was glad they’d begun to narrow in on what could actually fit his body. Today he’d settled for a dark turtleneck, black trousers, and duster jacket, matching the remaining acoutrama of boots, gloves, and smallclothes that he gathered atop the bundle in his arms.

Throwing them down beside the bath, Hades began to undress from the thin cotton top and bottoms he slept in, slipping his body beneath the water’s surface. It rose to pool below his jutting knees and torso, nearly spilling over the rim of the basin. His skin broke out with a ripple of gooseflesh, shocked by the sudden loss of warmth, but he began to make quick work. With a scowl, he set to scrubbing over his limbs and chest.

His daily events now seemed to revolve around those who came to bring him his first meal, Scion or guard—by his guess, that would be any time now. The Astrologian usually allowed him free reign of the libraries or markets, the Seer less so but she’d still allow him the opportunity to bring something back to his chambers, either a tome or at the very least a few scrolls. Reading at least gave him a repose from his mind—boredom only aided to support the more painful memories. The Gunbreaker had even been made to attend him, though he was the least accommodating of their comradery. Though, that strictly depended on whether the Oracle accompanied him on his visits, she seemed to bring out a better side in the Hyur.  
  
The Ascian stretched out from the bath, running his washcloth over the length of his thighs, back, and calves. The Exarch, as busy as he was, had settled to hear of the Ascian’s plans once the remaining two light-bearing heroes returned from their journey on the Source. Hades was slightly discontented by the idea of it, but he supposed it was fair enough—if they were going to plan for these future endeavors it would do well to know the state of the Scions vessels. If they were to do as he planned, anyway.

The Warrior of Light needed to seek out her remaining shards, rejoin with them, if she hoped to have a chance facing one such as Elidibus. If Hades still had his abilities, he could prove to be of use to the Scions; it would be so much easier for him to seek them out, amplifying his sight with magic, but at this point their only hope would be to implore the strength of the Crystal Tower, or the Oracle. If the Exarch would consent, then Hades could begin working through the Tower’s inner machinations, researching just _how _that miqo’te managed to transport the Warrior and her company between stars.

It had been decades since he’d worked with Allagan technology and in truth, Hades had probably forgotten a large portion of its true workings—if given time, however, he could perhaps manage to rework it to the Scions benefit. If the Exarch agreed, then the Warrior of Light could seek out her remaining souls amongst those of the living stars, rejoin, and return here before their plight with the Emissary could reach a crescendo. He wouldn’t begin the Rejoining on any of the remaining four stars, not while the First was so close to its calamity.

It was a whimsical plan, Hades knew, but at this point it seemed that was what the hero and her party were hoping for; they had nowhere else to turn. He sighed as he washed the soap from the last of his body, stepping from the now chilled water to begin drying himself, shivering. Perhaps with the impending peril their situation presented them with the Exarch would be more likely to acquit to Hades’ suggestions, though he doubted, even still, that he would be willing to _fully_ listen to him. It was deserved, considering their past and his…_actions_, though no less annoying.

Wringing what water he could from his hair, Hades shook and swept it over in its usual fashion, white forelock falling forward about his right eye. As he dressed, the Ascian took note of how snug the shirt fit him, the material surprisingly warm and comfortable, though the trousers, again, seemed to air on the looser side, at least around his waist. Holding them up at his hips, Hades began rummaging through his remaining stack of clothes for the belt he’d received a few days prior.

A thought suddenly hit the Ascian, considering what the hero had told him prior to their walk in Lakeland—she was a tailor. He looked back down to his top, fingering the stitching that ran over his ribs and stomach. As he’d thought. The original seam had been restitched, a thicker thread overlapping and beginning over again as it continued down into the lower half of the fabric, displaying that the seam had been tucked, cut, and taken in from its original shape. Was she refitting his clothes?

Hades knelt down, scowling. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the hero in a few days—she should be healed by now, off running errands and the like, shouldn’t she? He didn’t suppose she had forgotten about their exchange in the courtyard, but it did strike him as odd that the Warrior of Light hadn’t made to seek him out.

“Ah, good morning, Emet-Selch.”

The Ascian turned over his shoulder, lacing the leather belt he’d found through the loops of his pants, pulling it taught. He hadn’t heard the elezen boy enter, “You as well.”

Alphinaud smiled and stepped forward into the chamber, the mechanical door sliding shut behind him. A platter of various foods sat balanced atop his hands, full to the brim. He scowled, there seemed to be more here than in the days previous, “I’ve brought you breakfast.”

“Hm,” Hades stood and walked over to the boy, looking down at the plate as he approached. Sausages, eggs, and thick slices of toast sat in a neat trio about the porcelain center, a bowl of jam, nuts, and a pitcher of, what he could only assume was coffee, sitting beside. His brow furrowed, “…I see we have upgraded from oatmeal and fruit.”

“The Warrior of Darkness’ request.” The elezen stated simply, placing the plate atop the tomes alongside them. Hades felt it was in an effort to save his hands, but he put the notion aside—he could have managed.

“Request?” He murmured.

Alphinaud nodded, placing a hand on his hip. “Well, more or less.” He paused, frowning worriedly, “Emilia came into the kitchens this morning after assisting the Exarch, she asked us to bring it here so she could speak with you.”

“…Hmm.”

The elezen seemed on edge by his reaction, “If I had my guess, it’s just to follow up on her questions. She never had the chance to speak with you, from what I understand, and Urianger said you’d wished to do so just as well as she.”

The Ascian’s chest tightened. “And talking proffers a larger breakfast?”

“Emilia’s orders,” He smiled gently, “I’m just doing as she asked.”

Names in Amaurot held very high regard, they were not meant to be shared publicly, titles more or less being their civilizations method of identification. In his time, their home prided itself on their method of inclusion, creativity—names were stifling, names held power, names labelled them from a mold. More so, it was a personal thing—even significant others, parents, children, oft addressed each other in some other mean than by name. A person’s soul, even if without a title, was enough to identify their beings and if not that then in creation, speech, they knew one another. The Scions had yet to toss about the hero’s name, and to do so so casually—_Emilia_.

Hades could feel himself growing uncomfortable, tense, like he was privy to something he shouldn’t be. The word was turning over in his mind, grazing and settling like the warmth of a fine drink, or a freshly baked loaf of bread—soothing and refreshing.  
  
Emilia…_Emilia_…was it Latin? Hm, if so then Aemilius—where had he heard that before?  
Hades felt a familiar prick deep in his mind; a tome, then…Αιμιλία…Αίμα.  
Ah, _emulate_, though if memory served, the name translated to something more akin to _rival_.  
He scowled—how fitting.

The Elezen chuckled at his prolonged silence, “All I know is that she’d said you needed it.”

Hades brows shot up. “Ah…well…” He suddenly thought back to the pants, considering how loosely they’d fit him. He hadn’t lost any significant amount of weight, though if that was what the elezen was inferring, it was a miscalculation, surely. “I’m well. The concern is unwarranted, though if you can pass along my…thanks, I would appreciate it.”

Alphinaud seemed shocked, “W-well, I will keep it in mind.” A gentle smile settled upon his face as he spoke, “Though you should do so yourself. She’ll be by in the next bell, I imagine.”

.

Emilia scowled as Thancred let her by, watching as she approached the Ascian’s door. Her ears flattened against the top of her skull, face falling into an annoyed, errant expression, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

The white-haired Hyur rolled his eyes, leaning against the framework that arched near the end of the long, crystalline hallway. Ryne was waiting for them in the foyer, eager to seek out the new coffeecakes that’d been introduced in the local café—she’d agreed to go with her to get one, but she doubted Emet-Selch would want to indulge the Oracle. “Right, just as you didn’t need help getting back to the Crystarium.” The accusatory tone of his voice made the hero flinch, but he paid it no mind, instead crossing his arms over his chest. An impatient sigh escaped him as he gestured his head towards the door, “Nor will you be left alone with an Ascian. Go on, let’s get this over with.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t enjoy your sour attitude,” Emilia quipped, running a palm over the machinations of Emet-Selch’s door. She mumbled under her breath as she stepped inside, “Nor do I.”

“Hurry up.” He called.

Across from her,s Emet-Selch sat waiting upon his cot, watching as the door swiveled and sealed shut in the same, sweeping gesture it’d opened with. He’d dressed himself in the new bundle of clothes that’d been brought to him, she noticed, though they looked a size too big for his frame. The duster jacket seemed warm enough for today, at least for around the Crystarium, but she’d been right in her observations—he’d definitely lost weight.

As their eyes met, Emilia felt a slight wave of insecurity hit her. His gaze didn’t exactly feel welcoming, of course it was idiotic to consider she would be, but he also didn’t seem to be in a mood for palaver. With a breath, the Warrior of Light forced a smile and bowed in greeting, “Good morning, Emet-Selch.”

His flaxen eyes followed her gesture, watching as she bent then straightened, “Good morning, hero.”

Emilia cleared her throat, shifting the weight between either of her feet. “How…are you feeling?”

“Well enough,” He paused for a moment, brow furrowing, “Though I think the question would be better suited for yourself.”

“Oh,” She looked down at her hands, taking note that they were solid, steady. It’d been the Scions accompanimental greeting for her over the past few days; interrogating and hovering when she’d excuse herself from breakfast, following her on missions, checking in on her training or accompanying her around the Crystarium. The gestures came from a good-natured place, though it made the lack of privacy no less infuriating, “I’m well. Thank you for asking.”

Silence followed as the Ascian looked away from her gaze, staring intently at his floor, “Hm.”

Emilia cleared her throat again, scratching the back of her neck, “I believe Alphinaud came by earlier?”

“If you’re referring to the elezen boy,” He murmured, gesturing to the plate that rested upon the tomes alongside him, “Then yes.”

“That’s him,” She nodded. The realization suddenly occurred to her that Emet didn’t seem to recognize the name—was it the same with all of the Scions? He did always address them with titles, she with hero, “I had told him to warn you. I was assisting the Exarch and guard over the past sennight, so I haven’t been able to stop in, but I was hoping to ask you a few more questions today…If you’d allow?”

“I believe you already have,” The Ascian stated, making a slight gesture with his hand, “But ever am I the captive audience.”

The awkward silence that followed made her scowl, considering how to proceed. “A different venue would work better, mayhap.” She looked around, taking note of his rooms. Besides the essentials—cot, blankets, a few stacks of books, clothes, and a metal tub—the chamber lacked any appeal or entertainment, windows and mirrors included.

Emet-Selch followed her appraisal of the room, “I take it that was the reason for the meal?”

“Ah,” Emilia’s ears twitched as she looked back at him, “Well, I saw your meal orders in the kitchen earlier. I thought you may want something different.”

“I’m served well enough, hero.” He countered, “It’s unnecessary.”

“Oatmeal every day would…well,” She waved her hand, “That’s a prisoner’s spread. As inclined am I for the same thing every day, you seem to need something a little…more robust.”

The Ascian met her gaze with steeled gold, brows furrowed. The intensity of it made her uncomfortable, “Last I checked I _am_ a prisoner.” He paused, “A well deserved one, at that.”

Emilia scoffed, “Well, last _I_ heard you’d made well to offer comradery.” She placed a hand on her hip, pointing, again, to the plate that rested atop his stack of books. It was pleasant to see it’d been nearly cleaned of its contents, “And comrades need to maintain their strength. Ascian’s still need to eat do they not? Inhabiting vessels and the like?”

  
  


.

“I’m so excited!” The Oracle skipped ahead of the trio, nearly radiating in her enthusiasm. Passersby chuckled as she swung her arms, hopping and dancing between the elegantly carved tiles on the path, giggling.

Their group had now left the safety of the Tower, making their way through the courtyards and off towards the new café near the Quadrivium. Thancred had been feigning annoyance, particularly once the Ascian had been added into their group, but the façade couldn’t hold as he watched after the girl. He hid the fond smiles behind a gloved hand or a forced scowl, but Emilia still caught enough that she, too, was grinning in turn.

“Where did she learn of this place?” The hero inquired. Ryne’s skipping had nearly sent her into the shoulder of a marketmen—a rambling of apologies escaping her once she’d realized what she’d done, but no one was harmed. The elderly man laughed it off, shuffling back towards the stalls with a smile on his face, “I didn’t know they’d added another café.”

Thancred sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Alisaie. She told her one night at dinner and I’ve not heard the end of it since.”

“And so you indulge her,” Emilia chuckled, “Such a father you’ve become, Thancred.”

A brilliant flush spread across the man’s face, “…I am no such thing.”

“Oh, come now,” She smirked, “D’ve thinks very much the same. Why do you think he’s always nagging at you?”

Hades watched as the pair in front of him continued bickering, chuckling as they exchanged quips of friendly, teasing banter. Twice, now, he’d seen a different side to their Warrior of Light, and twice now he was left in a state of confusion, guilt. He didn’t expect her to remain in that stoic, desponded state of heroism _all the time_, it would be inhuman to expect such, but it was still unexpected when she displayed a more…lenient side of herself. She’d always been willing enough to listen to his cause, when Hades had come to discuss or listen in on the Scions’ conversations, but never jovial such as this. For a moment, he even considered what may have happened be it he had approached their group differently, otherwise withheld of his Ascian nature and current vessel; would Hades of seen this side of the Champion, her friends?

He pulled the edges of his jacket closer to himself, crossing his arms atop his chest. The shame was back, intense and dark near the forefront of his mind. It felt perverse, wrong, to suddenly be in their company, to think those thoughts, “Are you alright, Emet?”

Hades turned, catching the hero’s bright, slitted blue eyes staring back at him, her brow furrowed. He pushed down the hollow, dull ache and cleared his throat, “I’m fine, hero.” He gestured with a hand, “Carry on.”

The Warrior of Light’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, scrutinizing. He’d almost thought she’d make comment on it, on him, and was preparing a retort be it she would, but she did no such thing. The miqo’te’s ears flattened, yes, but she left him be all the same, turning her attentions back to the child and Gunbreaker now walking ahead of them. 

He fought a sigh of relief, averting his eyes to the floor. She’d asked after his health several times since they’d left his chamber’s, and even there she’d made note to inquire about his meals and comfort. Didn’t the Warrior just recover from aether depletion? Wouldn’t it be prudent of _him _to ask after _her_?

Hades fought a scoff—that was idiocy.  
Asking about her well-being would only come across as a condescending joke, or insincere at best—particularly around the Scions company. He and his brethren had caused all of this besides, added flame to the already raging fires of this star’s overburdened, Light saturated soul. Now Hades’ presence just served as a memory, a scar, reminding all of what he had tried to ruin and destroy in Zodiark’s name. Even with the façade of comradery the hero and her companions insisted they were offering, he, in their eyes, would never change.  
Ever was he an Ascian, a murderer of civilizations—ever would he be the villain; she should hate him just as much as her comrades seem to.

“Ah, there they are!”

Hades paused as the group approached a bar-like stall near the top of the stairs, emerging from the markets below. Two of the vendors, ones he definitely couldn’t recognize, waved their hands in greeting as they saw the hero and Oracle approaching the kiosk. A crowd was gathered around this very same stall, placing and receiving orders of vibrant pastries, beverages, and likewise soups, all either steaming or fragrant, sometimes both. Variants of tables sat around this centermost point, around them, foliage and lanterns hanging protectively along the railing.

The Gunbreaker stayed back, standing along Hades’ side. As they stood watching after his comrades, the Hyur’s trademark sour attitude—as Hades had come to know it as—drowned out his façade of pleasant comradery.

“Don’t be getting any ideas.” The Ascian turned to see the white-haired man glaring up at him, arms crossed defiantly across his armored chest.

Hades raised a brow, “Pardon?”

The look the shorter met him with implied what Hades had thought he’d been getting at, but it was no less annoying. “You heard me. Don’t be getting any ideas, Ascian.” His eyes gestured to the gunblade that’d been strapped across his back, as if emphasizing his threat.

“Forbidden from looking around, am I?” Hades mocked, glancing around for effect.

“No,” Thancred retorted, “But you have never crossed me as the type to simply play along with our duties—unless it benefits you in some way, of course.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, “I had no thought of fleeing, if that’s what you’re inferring.”

When the shorter didn’t respond, he continued, “I do find it interesting, however, that I must act as a dog and refrain from even _looking_ around for fear of having my motives questioned.” His voice fell flat, cold, “It may be difficult for you to understand, but I’ve accepted your parlay, and offered my own—nothing more, and no less. Had I had a scheme in mind, I would have hoped I’d of made well to act on it before you and yours so _kindly _locked me away in your _gleaming_ tower.”

Thancred’s eyes narrowed, looking him up and down, “Forgive me, but last I let down my guard, one of _yours _took my body for a joy-ride.” The hatred that flared in his eyes reminded the Ascian of those he’d seen in his nightmares. The animosity of men that lay broken upon the end of Solus’ blade, of those whose stars he’d ushered forward unto a calamity, men who he’d brought to their knees in tears, “I won’t have the same happen to them.”

A small cough brought the two men away from their dispute, “I see you two get along swimmingly.”

The Warrior of Light stood alongside the Oracle, a platter of cakes resting in one hand and a set of empty glasses balanced in the other. The smaller held a pitcher of what he could only assume was coffee, jingling with large, square ice cubes. “They gave us a fresh batch,” Ryne grinned, “And something they called…ah…what was it, Emilia?”

Hades felt his stomach knot at the name—so flippantly they tossed it out, did it not bother her?

“I believe they called it _cold brew_,” The miqo’te’s eyes looked over the pitcher, stressing the words as they fell from her mouth, “It’s coffee, more or less. I think it’s steeped longer, or it’s some special ground…” She shrugged, “I didn’t quite catch everything Gerald said, but it was something like that.”

“It sounded really tasty,” Ryne interjected, holding it out to the Hyur, “They said it’s strong, but it should go really well with the cakes.”

“I’m sure it will,” Thancred reached over and removed the plate of confectionary from the hero’s hands, balancing it, instead, atop his own. He gestured forward with his head, “You two lead on so we can try these, then be on our way.”

Their group set out, the Oracle leading their pack as they ambled and wove throughout the crowds, in search of an empty table. She and the miqo’te hero found one that’d been vacated soon enough, closest to the wall of the raised, café platform. It was a pleasant enough spot, secluded from the larger gathering of patrons yet still in lieu of the bright foliage and accompanying flowers. If their Champion decided to question him, he’d much rather be away from the throws of people.

“Here,” Thancred passed the plate of cakes over to the girl, “Divvy them out.”

The red-headed child nodded enthusiastically, placing each pastry atop a napkin and passing them along to each member of the table, Hades, surprisingly, first. The hero, now armed with the pitcher, poured its contents along into each of the adjacent cups, topping them to the brim. They had been right, the coffee seemed just as much as that of a normal iced brew, but its scent did warn of a stronger, more bitter taste.

Once everyone had been given their respective glass and pastries, their conversation had died down in favor of eating. Hades didn’t really care much for cakes, the texture had always been slightly off-putting—never moist enough, never smooth, but in combination with the drink the flavor was, admittedly, pleasant. The strength of the coffee matched the sweetness of the cake, complimenting the espresso laved frosting and fruits atop in a rich, decadent tang. The more he partook of the sweets, the more its sugar coated his mouth and throat, cool and chocolatey against the stark, bitter chill of the drink.

“Oh, these are so good!” Ryne giggled as she chased down another bite of her cake with long drink of coffee.

“Yeah, they are,” The hero cast the Oracle a fond smile, pushing her plate aside. She’d eaten a few bites of her own cake, but the majority of her portion had been left untouched. “Thank you for bringing us here, Ryne.”

The girl’s face brushed over with the hint of a blush, her resulting smile radiant, “It was all Alisaie. She told me about this place.”

“Thankful are we for _her_ recommendation, then.”

Ryne nodded, “Thancred said so too. He wanted to wait to bring us once we’d finished planning for the Empty.”

The hero’s face stiffened as she looked over to the Gunbreaker, brow raised. “Is that so?”

Thancred averted his eyes, aware of where her inquiry was headed, “We just finished, so don’t act like we wouldn’t tell you.”

“If I had my guess, I would say you didn’t plan to,” She retorted hotly, “So let’s hear it, what have you done?”

Hades was somewhat lost by what they were referring to, though he had heard the term, _‘The Empty,’_ tossed around during their conversations in the Ocular.

“All we’ve done is secure a vessel,” He sighed, “The Exarch had some supplies sent over for us to pick up in Mord Souq, Ryne and I enlisted to have tents and such prepared.”

“And?”

“_And _we haven’t decided when to leave,” Thancred placed his cup back on the table, folding his arms across his chest. His exasperated expression met the hero’s with challenge, “Though if I had my _guess_, it would be after D’ve and Yvette have returned.”

The Champion in turn leaned back in her seat, looking down at the table in thought.

“You’ve nothing to worry about, Emilia.” Ryne reached out and placed her hand atop the miqo’te’s, squeezing her fingers gently, “We will tell you. I promise.”

“And there’s the right of it,” The Gunbreaker added.

“The _right of it_ would have been to tell me what’s _going on_.” Emilia snapped, casting him a glare, “I’ve been left blind to all of these plans since they’ve left, despite me asking, Thancred.”

The white-haired Hyur scowled, “You know that we didn’t want to worry you. We’ve reached an impasse without knowing the state of our bodies, nor how the Alliance fares in your absence.” He paused, “We were waiting until we had a plan in place to discuss our options. You know just as well as I that if the Alliance is in need, you’ll be called back to the Source, Emilia.”

Hades watched as the hero began to close off from her comrades, her soul’s essence now turning over and blocking out it’s brilliant, cesious sheen from his view. It was much the same as the night of their walk, now that he placed it—as if an opaque film was curtaining his Sight, muddying and coating her soul’s essence.

Emilia folded Ryne’s fingers from her hand and pressed them back into a fist, pushing her arm away in turn. “All of you treat me as if I’m suddenly fragile,” Her voice took on that cool distance again, “I won’t break. I deserve to know what these ideas are just as much as all of you—I’m the one who will have to face whatever we’re met with anyway, as you said.”

Had he not told the others the same? Hiding and coating things over would never help her growth, nor would it assist in their plight against Elidibus. It almost made him…happy, to hear her speak out on the subject. Hades cleared his throat, “Forgive me for the interruption, but could one of you clarify this…_Empty_?”

The group seemed surprised by his presence, almost as if they’d forgotten he’d joined them. “W-well,” Ryne seemed hesitant, “It’s what we call the area effected by the Flood.”

“I know of that much,” He stated, remembering back to the wastelands that he’d seen over his time on the First. If memory served, its white, barren stretch covered almost nine-tenths of Norvrandt, stretching and encompassing all that’d been touched by the Flood. Ah, it had been halted by the original form of this Oracle, had it not? “I’m curious as to what you plan to do with it.”

Thancred made a face, “There is nothing _to _do with it.”

“Then why make a deal over something like this, then?” Hades retorted.

“It’s not what we plan to do with it, per se,” The hero rolled her eyes at Thancred, almost chastising. “He’s taking your inquiry too literal. Ryne,” She gestured to the child, “Sensed something beyond the gates closest to Amh Araeng. The plan is to see what it is, then go from there.”

The Oracle nodded, “We thought it could be a Lightwarden. I did think their Light kind of similar but…well, I’m not really sure.” She seemed to shrink, “I’m still getting used to these abilities, so it’s hard to tell what it could actually be.”

Hades could almost chuckle—if it was a Lightwarden, no one else _but _their Champion could hope to face it down, be it her soul could even handle that wealth of Light anymore. He wondered if it could, “Interesting.”

The palaver lightened after his interjection, returning once more to a twinge of jovial comradery, one which he, again, didn’t feel comfortable participating in. The latter didn’t seem to notice, which again he felt for the best—in this way he could observe, think. He’d already turned over a few conversations in his mind, listening in on the hero’s responses, or her comrades.  
  
The Champion’s recent missions that she’d completed for the Exarch had been handled well enough, apparently, though he found it interesting that one of those requests had set her to explore the reaches of the Crystal Tower. With the immediate treat cleared from the Crystarium, researchers had been funded by the Exarch to set about profiling and logging the various reaches of the Tower. Hades had yet to truly discuss with him his plans for said Tower, but he was hopeful in hearing that he’d begun to take steps in learning what the Allagan technologies could do for their plight.

Their Champion, being what she is, was tasked with clearing out any obstacles and guardians that been left to help protect the reaches of the Allagan construct—which apparently, had been. The lower levels had been overrun with creatures; drawn to some aethereal disturbance she’d settled near one of the core reactors. He’d wanted to ask more, at least to learn about what she’d found, how these creations reacted and why, though he didn’t find this to be the time, or place.

Hades pushed aside his plate and glass as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table. The platter of cakes had been all but cleared of their contents, remnants of crumbs and ganache being the only hint that confectionary had been shared around their table. The coffee, as well, had been drained of its contents, though for that he supposed he was grateful. Hades had already begun to feel jittery from the caffeine, especially now that it’d been introduced back to his system. If given the opportunity, he could of easily of have had another glass or two, just to taste the brew’s flavor again, but with his anxiety it was probably a bad idea. 

  
“Are you alright, Emet?”

  
The hero was looking at him again, an empathetic expression writ upon her face. The Ascian fought the urge to recoil under it, despite the sudden discomfort and guilt that began to rise up and answer in his chest. As he averted his eyes, Hades took note that the two who had been seated with them previously were now absent. He scowled, “…Where did your comrades go?”

Emilia looked to the empty seats, seemingly unfazed by his response, “I asked if they could give us some space so I could speak with you,” She stated, “They’re waiting in the gardens.”

His eyes followed as she gestured over past the edge of the raised platform, pointing to a patch of grass located between two tall, white buildings. Small fruit trees and hedges rose in the space between them, “Why?”

Her brow rose, “If you’re asking why to the talking, I wanted to have more of my questions answered. To the latter, as supportive as the Scions may be, I felt it may make you more comfortable to talk away from…them. No offense, but you and Thancred don’t seem to get along.”

Hades watched as the hero leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms atop her chest. Her head tilted, “…If you don’t wish to do so here, we could walk to Lakeland again. I didn’t know what you would feel up to, so I thought I’d leave it to you to decide.”

He still found his muscles aching from their trek into the woods, and that had only been a sennight or so ago. To do so again it would do him good, but he hadn’t exactly been conditioned in that time between to manage another trek of that length, which, if he had his guess, it would be.

Hades scowled, clenching his fists in his lap. The hollow, weighted guilt ached in his chest, stomach, reminding him that he should deter the concern, ignore her questions. He spoke before he could catch himself, “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Saying what?” Her ears perked. 

“Why do you keep asking how I feel?” He replied, “Your memory can’t possibly have erased all of your time on the First—you said as much last time, hero.”

Emilia shrugged, “Yes, though I fail to see your point.”

Hades leaned forward, pointing at his chest, “I’m an Ascian, I’ve attempted to kill you and your comrades, and very nearly succeeded.” When she made no comment he continued, “Your Scions don’t seem to have forgotten that much; I’m asking if you have.”

“I haven’t,” The Warrior of Light met his gaze, choosing her words slowly, “Some, yes, but I remember some of what you were. Though I believe the others stated you’ve been separated of your temperment, have you not?”

His brow furrowed. He hadn’t considered how much of himself had been separated from Zodiark, not since he last withdrew to witness the chains tied within his own soul. It would be an interesting concept to work through, considering just how much of his magics had been lost. More so, just how much of himself, his Amaurotine soul, _had _been separated from the Father? “…In some regard, yes, though that makes no difference in the actions I’ve committed. What’s done is done, as it were.”

“True enough, but what you’ve done and what you can do yet are two separate things, to me.” She shrugged, “Why should I begrudge and isolate you when you have agreed to help us?”

Hades felt cool anxiety welling up in his chest, stomach, “I could still have ulterior motives, hero.”

“Doubtful,” She chuckled, “I mean no offense, but you don’t seem to herald all the magic you once had—not from what I can remember. And as wounded as I may still be, I still feel I’m able to match you.” The hero cocked a lopsided, wistful grin, “Currently, anyway.”

A stretch of silence fell between them, another much like his rooms—awkward and with some essence of tension, though he felt it more his cause than the hero’s. Was this her attempt at a…a joke? The smile seemed to indicate as much, but he didn’t understand why she was making an attempt at humor. Was it pity? If so, then she was treating him the same as she did all of the broken, acrid husks of this star; it was an undeserved, pitiful act, “I don’t want the empathy.” Hades stated, “Keep it for the masses, not me.”

The Warrior of Light seemed to consider him, thinking over her words before responding, “I apologize if you feel I was treating you any differently, though I will admit, I felt…responsible, for this. Don’t mistake me, though,” When he made to cut her off, she rose a hand, “It’s not as if I didn’t _want _to kill you for all that’s happened.”

Hades’ brows shot up; so the Champion of Hydaelyn did resent him.

“I wanted to, when I’d learn you’d returned. It was a second chance to fix a mistake I made,” She stated, “But I was much too weak to do anything about it, and more intrigued by your involvement with Hydaelyn than what your motives could have been.”

“I’ve known men who have committed murder for less of a whim, hero.” Hades retorted, “And it would have been deserved if so.”

“I didn’t see any gain in actually murdering you, nor having the others commit the same.” The woman before him looked away, “I wanted to, as I said. My curiosity doesn’t seem a good enough reason, but…I’ve also never truly been presented with another opportunity to learn about an Ascian.” She shook her head, “You aided in recuperating my soul, and for that I am grateful. Besides, I’ve still questions I want to ask about Amaurot.”

As the words left her lips, Hades felt a shiver run down his spine, breaking his skin into gooseflesh and cool, icy despondence. She was looking at him again, but her eyes were cool, calm—their sheen reflecting back the cesious essence of her soul with a near blinding radiance. He clenched his fists again then opened them, flexing them back and forth in his lap, biting through the pain. His limps felt numb, his heart shuddering in his chest, “Right,” He attempted to clear his throat, “Well…I am the captive audience as it were. Go on.”

The Warrior of Light tilted her head, appraising him, “Who is Hythlodaeus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends! 
> 
> I apologize greatly for the long wait for this chapter, it's over 10k words because of the new events I'm trying to cover so the next few updates may fall into the very same wait time (though with the state of the world right now, I will have more time to myself to try to write, so there's some good news~). With the time differences I'm trying to convert between the Source and the First, chapters will probably feature either one group of heroes or the other, at least until we all return back to the First, so I apologize if they may feel a little slow to read. This chapter also felt a little odd to write, I guess because I'm working more with Emet and Emilia's conversations, but I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> 5.2 gave me so many fantastic ideas about some story features and events I want to cover; I hope you guys enjoyed it just as much as I did! : D 
> 
> If you'd like to see Emilia/D've/Yvette art, feel free to check my twitter, I post the arts there --> https://twitter.com/MagicaAria
> 
> Also, if you guys are on the search for a wonderful, inclusive, and supportive Emet/FFXIV fanfic community, I urge you to come by and join this discord! Be sure to mention what fic sent you - many of us lurk around AO3 with fics in this same pairing, among many many MANY others! Here is the INV link for any interested friends! ---> https://discord.gg/TT93FMD


	13. Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~WARNING: Light 5.2 spoilers for any who have not completed the MSQ~

Genuine shock took over the Ascian’s face, his eyes widening. The silence that followed the hero’s inquiry was heavy, hanging in the air, weighing down their conversation and bringing the atmosphere prior to a sudden, awkward halt. It took a moment for Hades to find his words, “How…” His voice was dry, “How do you know that name?”

Emilia watched as the Ascian met her gaze, “Hythlodaeus?”

He flinched, unused to his friend’s title being spilled from this shard’s lips, “Yes.”

“I’ve met him,” She tilted her head, “A few times, though it’s been in dreams, nothing more.”

The hero watched as Emet-Selch’s face paled, a hand reaching up to his collar. His eyebrows were knitted together in thought, “Met him..?”

“I…don’t really know much else _besides_ his name.” She waited for the Ascian to interrupt, but continued once it’d been made apparent he wouldn’t make comment. “If I dream and find myself in that city, then he’ll come to help me. Sometimes he tells me who he is, if I ask, but that’s about it.”

His heart was beating impossibly fast, hands almost near shaking. How was it that she could know him, _by name _no less, without having accessed some memory from Persephone’s soul? He’d never told her or her Scions about him, nor had he hinted at his presence in their prior discussions of the Tempest. Was…was she remembering?

“What of this city, can you tell me of it?” He met her gaze, “Before…before you see _Hythlodaeus_.” To speak of him...it felt foreign, lost on his tongue, “Start there, please.”

She considered for a moment, “It’s beautiful, quite unlike most of the places I’ve been to or seen. Ishgard may be the only one to rival the size of the buildings, but it’s been awhile since I’ve been there to really speak on comparison.” A fond smile touched at the corners of her mouth, glittering in turn at the edges of her aether. The crooks of her eyes crinkled, aged, the skin beneath looking doubly tired and weary, but the chuckle, the fond grin, they made the hero look at ease, made her seem gentle. It caught Hades off-guard, like a sudden warmth in a dark room, and for a split moment he felt the need to look away.

“It’s a city-state on the Source. I…well, anyway. Hm…Purple trees line the paths, though there’s these blue lights that glow from the roofs of the buildings, lamps—I don’t know how else to really describe them, but they’re everywhere. The stone and windows on the buildings are all ornate, with these swirls or designs etched in them,” She made a gesture with her hands, trying to convey the outlines. Rudimentary as they were, he recognized what she spoke of, “Spires everywhere, very tall, and black.”

The Warrior of Light hummed, furrowing her brow, “There are really tall robed people I see every time, walking around the city or standing in the streets. They’re all wearing white masks, so I can’t ever tell what they look like. I can’t really understand what they’re saying either, but a few of them do try to talk to me.”

Hades looked down at the table, fighting the emotions he could feel struggling to surface beneath his calm, tired façade. Persephone’s shard _would _remember their people, of course, Hythlodaeus nonetheless—she cared for them deeply, after all, it was fitting that she’d have her descendent feel the same.

“Well, hero,” Hades rubbed his eyes, massaging and wiping over his face, sighing, “It would seem you were correct. Everything you described can only be what I know of Amaurot.”

“I thought so.” Emilia responded, looking back to him. She continued, quietly, “You mentioned some of those details at the Ladder, but I couldn’t be sure. It’s still a little difficult to remember.”

Then two fell silent, Hades lost in his own memories, the Warrior of Light giving him breath before another line of inquiry. Even curious at least the Ascian felt this hero understood, or at least empathized, that he needed time to process these new events, thoughts.

“You,” He swallowed. Of all of this, at least their Champion seemed to be remembering some of their past, prior to his resurrection. “You said that they speak to you, Hythlodaeus, the shades?”

Emilia nodded, “It just depends. Sometimes they’ll speak, sometimes they won’t.”

“Can you elaborate?” He inquired. 

Her lips formed a taught line, “As I said, it just depends. I don’t know why but at times the city isn’t…_whole. _That’s one of the reasons I wanted to discuss this with you.” She paused, seeming to bite down on her lip. Hades watched as she mulled through her thoughts, then centered back on herself, gesturing lightly, “From what I’ve noticed, Hythlodaeus only appears when everything in the city is destroyed. I—”

The Doom.

“Please,” Before she proceeded, he cut her off, “I don’t need to hear of the destruction, hero.” His nightmares alone sufficed far more than any mortals’ words could. She regarded him, warily, but nodded her consent regardless, “Tell me of what he says, when you see him in those dreams. That’s more important.”

“It’s…still hard to explain.” Hades watched as her mismatched locks fell over her shoulders, falling down into her face and eyes. The braid behind her head had been pulled from its taut weave, allowing more of the brown strands to curtain over her downturned face. For fleeting a moment, he had the nostalgic urge to reach out and move it, to tuck it back and read what he could of her soured expression.

_Not Persephone. _

He flexed his hands into fists, pushing the notion aside—gestures such as that were for familiars, comrades, or lovers, and he was forgetting his place. In this era, life, he was none of that sort. 

The Warrior of Light was watching him. When she spoke, her voice had grown somewhat softer, but cold, “We’re in agreement that what I say goes no further than this table, Ascian?”

Hades scoffed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Ah. Now _there_ is the suspicion I’ve been waiting for. And here I had thought we had moved past such trivial misgivings,” As the hero’s eyes narrowed, he waved a scarred hand in dismissal, “I’ll not whisper a word, hero, continue with your story, before your comrades return.”

Emilia’s ears turned back against the crown of her head, a scowl overtaking her features. “We are _trying _to work past such _misgivings_, Emet, though if you’ll remember, the only interaction we’ve had with your kind has been at the other end of a blade.”

“Pardon my superciliousness then,” He offered a slight bow of his head, but she didn’t seem amused by his haughty tone, “Continue, if you would?”

After another pass of silence and the Warrior of Light did, indeed, continue, regarding him with every bit the suspicion she had upon their first meeting in the Crystarium, “Every time I show up in the city and it’s destroyed, more or less, I am on my way to find something, or someone. I don’t know who or what I’m trying to find, but before I can get there, I’m stopped by a…headache.” She sighed, “When I open my eyes, Hythlodaeus is standing above me, helping me up or urging me to keep going. It always ends there.”

Hades tried rummaging through his own memories, trying to pinpoint if something of this sort _had _occurred to the original Persephone. At this time, she and the remaining Fourteen had been called to the Convocation, so it was unlikely that her soul would have been wandering the city during the beginning of this Doom. Hades and she and been hauled up with Igeyorhm and others at the Bureau of the Conservator, or the Akademia if he remembered, trying to find a means to delay their inevitable, buy Lahabrea and Elidibus more time. If this dream was likely a remnant of memory, Hades could only assume it was of the second Doom, not the first. He’d…_lost_ Persephone during this time, and during the second, _Hythlodaeus_ had been… “Can you understand him, when he speaks to you?”

Emilia’s brows rose, contemplating, “I…well, I suppose so?”

Curious. “And the others?”

“Hm,” This line of questioning seemed to throw the hero off her guard. The calm that’d been present in her soul’s sheen was now blackening, or fogging, near the center of her chest like a storm. “Not really, I…guess it’s more a feeling. I can’t understand the words, they don’t sound like any language I know, just…chimes, if that makes any sense?”

She looked up to him for understanding, and he had to swallow his anger before he could manage a nod. The only source of such a _loathsome_ sound, that he’d become aware of, at least, was the hero’s Mother, Hydaelyn, attempting to communicate through her _Echo_. If she had gone as far as to intervene with Warrior of Light’s soul these passing moons, he wouldn’t put it past her to meddle with her Champion’s memories, or Persephone’s memories, as well.

Hades thrummed his fingers against his chin, thinking. These dreams could very well be a window into what his beloved had witnessed prior to the star’s final demise; wishful thinking, but if so, the timeline was all wrong. Though destroyed, his people, Amaurot, had managed to begin rebuilding some of the city during the second Doom’s coming. Hydaelyn had yet to be summoned, true enough, but if what the hero said was true, fire’s and destruction, Hythlodaeus, they were out of place there. This was just confirmation, if anything, that Hydaelyn wanted to keep her Champion blind to the state of her past, these dreams very well serving as her means to do it—but why?

“I get the gist of what he’s trying to tell me,” Emilia tapped the top of the table, pointing with emphasis, “If I’m careful sometimes I can remember what he _said_ when I wake up, though I think it just depends on how bad the headache was. Sometimes it’s simple, like an obvious ‘_let’s go’_ or ‘_hurry_,’ and at others it’s something more, like a thought, or a statement._”_

Hades scowled, “Have you told your comrades, hero?”

Wrapped up in the idea of discovery, in figuring out what these dreams were, what the city was, Emet’s question was out of place and altogether brought the hero’s churning thoughts to a stumbling, tripping halt. “No. Why _would_ I?”

“I assume this would concern them, in some way or another—the aether seeing one, or the Scholar,” He replied, “These headaches hold interest, at least.”

Emilia crossed her arms over her chest. The look she leveled him with was full of cool indignance, “I told you of this to learn of Hythlodaeus or Amaurot, not fret over my head.” The venom in her voice was a little unexpected, particularly in how she stressed the names, “You are the _leading informant _on the subject, last I was told. Old and well-lived, as it were.” When he made to speak, she continued heatedly, “Besides, these dreams aren’t anything the Scions need worry over. We agreed—what is said doesn’t leave this table, or are you so quick to draw back upon your word, Ascian?”

As the silence returned, it dawned upon Hades that with his comment, he must have fractured some means of…neutrality, between he and the hero. He wouldn’t press it as far as to call it confidence, or _friendship,_ but he supposed with his previously displayed attitudes towards the Scions, she had assumed to tell him these things for the sole purpose that they _wouldn’t _learn of them. She’d admitted as such, but he hadn’t quite expected her to forgo telling them so _much; _one step forward, and two back, as the saying was.

“I…” He paused, attempting to find the words. “I did not mean for what I said to be interpreted as such, my…my apologies.”

Emilia’s eyes widened, the anger and tension washing from her expression just as quickly as it’d come. Both of her ears had perked forward, standing upright and twitching atop each side of her head, “What…What did you just say?”

The bright blue of the Champion’s eyes met his with a smug, familiar mischievousness and for a split moment, Hades forgot that she and Persephone shared a soul. He’d been embarrassed by those eyes, that look, many a time, and the years didn’t seem to make him any less flustered, “D-Don’t make me repeat it, hero.” Hades waved his hand again, turning away.

“My, my,” The Warrior of Light leaned forward, elbows propping herself up as she gazed at him from across the table. From the corner of his eye, he could see the tip of her tail twitch from side to side, swinging like a pendulum behind her. Her voice now took on his air of arrogance and lilt, a stark change to the honey tinged alto he’d grown accustomed to, “And here I’d been led to believe none of your kind could apologize. Seems even _my _informants can be wrong.”

“Your _informants_ have only gazed at us from the tips of blades, my dear,” Hades mumbled, though he could feel his cheeks warming, “You said so yourself.”

“Indeed they have.” He could feel her gaze settling upon his hands, chest, roaming and inspecting over every ilm of him lain visible upon the seat opposite her. The gesture made Hades _uncomfortable_, like he’d forgotten to straighten a set of buttons, or left a stain upon his shirt.

His fingers twitched, “We’re making little progress in stepping over one another’s toes.” She chuckled, but he continued, “I’ll keep my word; I won’t speak of these findings of yours. I will urge you to, however much you may detest, to mention this pain to your comrades.”

When the miqo’te opposite made to sigh and retort, he waved his hand again, rolling his eyes. “For precaution, mind you. I know not fully the extent to which your unstable aether can surface, nor do your friends for that matter. It may be nothing, but if these pains are occurring often, even when you are asleep, it may stand cause that they are tied in with that hole in your chest.”

Emilia’s gaze followed his, looking down unto the fissures that ran across her sternum, glowing in quiet, patient silence. The thought hadn’t crossed her, but what was done to mend the digression of her aether _was_temporary; D’ve would have her head for not thinking at least that much through, and if not he then certainly Yvette. She was already so angry with her, “You said you’d repaired the damage.”

“Repaired what I could manage, yes.” Hades rescinded, “I’ve not the power to mend you as you are, hero, not as I am now.”

.

“Oh, the Twelve bless me, it’s you two!” As the doors to the Rising Stones fell shut, the figure of a tiny, pastel lalafellen came sprinting forward at the two weary heroes. Her arms reached out in greeting to each of them, happy tears streaming from her like-colored eyes.

D’ve and Yvette grinned in tandem, kneeling down to Tataru’s height in preparation for the hug they knew the both of them would receive. It was short, and awkward considering their garb, but after their exchanges the trio moved forward into the Scion’s base. The smaller woman began explaining who some of the adventurers were, seated in the benches and tables to either side of them. A few familiar faces stood out, though most seemed new to the ranks of their light-sworn kin.

As the trio paused near the bottom landing, Tataru wiped at her eyes, sniffling, “A-as you can see, not much has happened since your last visit.”

“The new faces are a welcome change,” D’ve smiled, gesturing around. “I’m never one to argue with more help.”

“It has been a blessing,” Tataru agreed, “As word spread into the nations more and more began to come to Mor Dohna. If not asking for Cid, then they came here, asking how they can help our cause.”

The miqo’te chuckled, “You’ve had your hands full, then.”

She shook her head, “_F’lhaminn_ and I have had our hands full, she mayhap more than me. I’ve just arrived back from Kugane not a sennight ago, so I wasn’t aware of the state of the Rising Stones before seeing it for myself.”

Yvette patted the lalafellen atop her head, ruffling her pale, pink hair, “Thankful are we for the _two_ of you, then. The others will be happy to hear that we’ve strengthened our numbers.”

Tataru gave the Bard a fond smile, then glanced over the tables, searching for something, “Speaking of, I _had_planned for you to meet with one of our _newest_ helpers…I suppose he left just before you arrived.”

“Helper?” 

The smaller woman gave a knowing look up to Yvette, who in turn raised her brow, “W…what? Did I say something?”

Her eyes narrowed, a smirk curling upon her face, “A certain _Dragoon _helper, one could say.”

D’ve looked between the two of them, realizing quickly just _who _the lalafellen was referring to, and turned to cast the self-same look to his Bard companion, “Ah, a certain _Dragoon.”_

“I don’t know why this concerns me,” Yvette’s cheeks began to flush, “He’s a friend of Ser Aymeric’s, ‘tis only logical he’d assist the Scions if it deemed to benefit the Alliance in some way.”

The ginger-haired miqo’te laughed, “Ah, but Estinein was quite fond of a _certain _Scion, last I checked.” He poked the au’ra in the shoulder, “If there was perhaps anything he could have done to assist her, especially during her sudden absence, I’m sure he would…_leap to the task_, as it were.”

Yvette averted her eyes, crossing her arms indignantly, “No one mentioned that it was Estinein, D’ve. You don’t know that for sure.”

“Oh, my dear,” Tataru burst into a fit of laughter, wiggling her small arms in amusement, “We and all of the Firmament know how infatuated he was with you. No sense in being coy now.”

“Alright, _alright_,” The Bard’s face was alight in shades of pink and red, “Enough about that, we didn’t come all this way to discuss my affairs…”

The other two stifled their chuckles, but the lalafellen continued, “Right, well, we’ve been exchanging messages with the Eorzean Alliance throughout this whole ordeal. Last they reported, the fighting has finally stopped at the Ghimlyt Dark, and the Empire’s shown no sign of movement otherwise.”

“Oh, that’s good news.” D’ve’s eyebrows raised, “A standstill, but that allows our comrades a chance to breathe on the front.”

“The Exarch will be happy to hear it,” Yvette agreed, still unable to meet the eyes of the remaining pair. “Emilia too.”

“Exarch?” Tataru questioned, her expression fell into shock, “Wait, Emilia isn’t with you two?”

“Ah, she’s…_not_.” D’ve scratched at the back of his head, looking to Yvette for help, “We can explain—”

The au’ra shrugged, “It’s a bit of a long story, to be honest.”

“We can talk it over with F’lhaminn then.” The lalafellan stated, wary, “She’d like to hear of the First as much as I, I’m sure.”

“I suppose a cup of tea could help to soften the tale,” The miqo’te nudged Yvette gently, “It’s been an age since we’ve spoken with her, I think she’d like to hear of who we met.”

“I should think so.” Yvette softened.

With that, the two heroes left in tow of the lala, pausing a time or two to speak to the House of Splendors dealers. Tataru had been expecting new shipments within the week, which she signed for on the way. Various provisions and tech, which still needed delivering to Ironworks, were left near the entrance, signed and expected to be picked up by dusk. The others, cargo which needed delivering to the Alliance, Tataru promised to D’ve and Yvette, who anticipated journeying to the Ghimlyt Dark after this afternoon’s rendezvous with the Scion’s.

Atop the terrace on the second floor, F’lhaminn sat near one of the dining tables, looking out onto the marketplace below. Her somber expression brightened when spotting the group, and the three comrades took their places at the table she beckoned them to without quarrel.

Their retelling began with their arrival upon the First, highlighting the Exarch—who he was for that matter—then how they came to arrive at the Crystarium thereafter. The remaining Scions upon the First had told them some of what they’d encountered during their journey on the likened star—sin eaters, politics, and the like—as well as the story of Ryne, and Minfilia’s assistance in halting the Flood of Light. It was…a sensitive subject, considering, but the prospect of this new Oracle seemed to fill F’lhaminn with a sense of ease and closure.

As Yvette began to explain the state of their comrade, Emilia, a blonde-haired Midlander came running up to the group, “I…m-my apologies, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Riol!” Tataru met the man with a smile, “I hope you're here to tell me you've received word from our _helper_?”

“I wish,” He huffed an exasperated breath, “Nay, I've not had a peep out of him. An' it's been a good long while now. Too bloody long.”

Yvette paused in placing her cup back to her saucer, a stern expression taking to her slender face. D’ve caught her forearm, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear, “Not to worry,” He murmured, “He’s off doing as he does, _leaping_ around, you know he’ll show up soon enough.”

“I know,” The au’ra gave her friend a worrisome smile, lowering her cuppa, “Just a habit—you know, with Nidhogg.”

He nodded, “I know, but it’ll be alright.”

“Ack! I nearly forgot!” Riol bowed quickly, nearly losing his eyepatch in the process, “Krile's at the Stones, an' she wants a word. Somethin' to do with the patients. She was gettin' ready to examine 'em again when I left.”

Tataru nodded and looked to the others, “Apologies, F’lhaminn. We'd best head back to her, I'm sure it's important.”

The elder miqo’te woman nodded in turn, smiling, “Of course.”

.

“You're here. Good.”

As the trio walked back through the doors of the Rising Stones, the yellow-clad lalafellen came walking from the rooms at the lower landing, a drab expression wrought upon her face.

“How are they?” D’ve asked, walking down to meet her.

The brown-haired woman looked up to him, tired, and shrugged, “Still locked in slumber. But otherwise in good physical health,” Then, under her breath, “...For the present, at least.”

“For the present? Not quite sure I like the sound of that.” Yvette added.

“I’m not for sure yet, I’ve only begun a few starting tests,” Krile stated, “But I’m afraid there may yet be something wrong.”

“Can you explain?” D’ve suggested, pointing near the hearth.

The group took up the offer quickly, settling around the fire in a familiar, warm semicircle atop chairs and likewise floor cushions. After the cold nights in Mor Dhona, their comrades would often gather around this selfsame hearth with a mug of ale and a loaf of bread or cheese. The Stones had just become their base of operations at that point, The Crystal Braves as well. Now, those days of soft-hearted missions and deliveries felt like distant, warm dreams, “I know not if the Exarch received my word after I attempted to have him summon you, but I grew…unsettled, after detecting faint signs of instability in Thancred's corporeal aether.”

“Wait,” Yvette’s eyes widened, “You know the Exarch?”

“Raha? Of course,” She grinned, “Though we can speak on that another time. I suspect you two are only here for a short while, so I’ll press on, for now—”

D’ve and Yvette shared a look of surprise, but nodded regardless.

“Since we last spoke, my subsequent examinations suggested all five of our friends might be affected the same as Thancred.” Krile clasped her hands together atop her lap, “When I examined them just now, my fears were confirmed.”

The miqo’te summoner leaned back in his chair, scratching at his chin, “Does the degree of instability vary between them?”

“Thancred exhibits the most notable signs, followed by Y'shtola and Urianger.” Krile sighed, “The twins' aether, meanwhile, remains relatively stable, but there is a change there too, if one knows to look for it.”

Yvette’s brow furrowed, “Hold on--isn't that the order they were called away in?

“I believe it is,” Tataru looked back to her smaller comrade, “Does that mean something, Krile?”

“It leads me to believe the instability will only increase with time.” The White Mage confirmed, somberly.

The fire crackled on in the background as the group sat, mulling over these findings.  
“We’d feared this—Urianger and the Exarch said as much before we left,” D’ve mumbled, now rubbing at the bridge of his nose, “We were hoping we may have more time.”

“We may yet,” Yvette suggested, “The difference in time between the Source and the First is quite vast—years, months ahead, right? Surely that can prove to work in our favor?”

“It may,” Krile agreed, “And it may not. This area of aether study is still quite new to us, and I can only make speculations for now.”

“Have you any other theories, then?” D’ve interjected, “About why this is happening, or what will happen, the longer they’re separated from their bodies?”

“Ah.” The lalafellen mage fidgeted, “All speculation, mind you, though I fear this instability may be a symptom of a weakening link between body and soul. We know aether, corporeal, makes up what we are, and without it…I cannot say for certain what may happen be it this progresses, yet whatever it is, I fear it cannot be good.”

“No loss of aether can be good,” The miqo’te looked to Krile, who averted her eyes, sadly. “There’s no need to sugarcoat the truth, tell us the right of it.”

“Mercifully, the instability is still only slight.” She paused, “It is a possibility that…I won’t lie and say that I think this ordeal is not grave. Be it the others are not returned soon, they could very well die.” Her blue eyes hardened, “But I promise that Master Matoya and I will do everything in our power to keep it from falling to that point, no matter the cost.”

“Let us hope we shall not have to make that barter,” Yvette reached a hand towards the lalafellen, grasping her small fingers in her own. Krile offered her a soft smile in turn, “Thankful are we for your intervention, my friend.”

“Indeed,” D’ve added. His black-tipped ears had fallen back against his head, tail curled up around his middle, “We…apologize that you’ve been left to care after everyone in our absence. I should be here to help, I know it’s not easy, and with everything going on—”

“Come now, D’ve,” Krile gave the miqo’te a chuckle, “I’ll not have you worry so.”

Tataru nodded, clenching her fist in front of her, “This is not the first time we’ve been tasked with caring for you lot, I’ll have you know,” She winked, “Nor do I suspect it shall be the last.”

Yvette looked over her shoulder to her comrade, nodding to him in agreement. “They’re right, we’ve a job to do.”

Warmth spread over the miqo’te’s cheeks, and for a moment, he didn’t quite realize that he’d begun to cry. He covered himself quickly, wiping furiously at his eyes, though a toothsome grin spread across his face as he did so, “I know, I know. You’re right.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Tataru shot to her feet, dusting off her backside, “Let us get the two of you settled for the evening. You can set off to speak with the Alliance on the ‘morrow.”

Yvette opened her mouth to argue, but the pastel-haired woman cut her off, “Now, now, I won’t hear of it. You both need a night of rest. The others can see you off in the morning. I mean, look at you—”

The two heroes looked down at their attire, still fouled, soiled, and stained with the dirt and grass they’d landed in upon their arrival on the Source. Yvette deflated, “Raha may be many things, but I believe his old age has made him a poor aim.” Krile winked, “Debate all you like, but I believe a bath will serve you both well, and a warm meal, besides.”

“Moreover,” Tataru ushered the pair on their feet, pushing them towards the bar, “Our _helper_ may yet show his face, and I’ll never hear the end of it if he can’t at least _see_ his masterful lady Bard.”

_“H-HEY!”_

.

Hades watched as the hero spun, swinging her cleaver across, down, then forward through the rugged mannequin’s chest. A hollow toll sounded in their clearing, nullifying what damage he could only assume such an attack _would _have done to a mortal otherwise. As she removed her blade, the hole left by the sword mended upon itself, confirming his suspicions, before she unleashed another series of strikes upon its bodice.

He’d lost sight of the other Scions, though he assumed they were still lurking somewhere in the nearby forest, watching after their precious _Champion _through the shadows. With a stretch, the Ascian looked up, staring at the milky blue sky. His studies in aetherology were going nowhere; mortals upon this star were pointedly lacking in their written accounts of primal tempering, as well as in their research regarding blocked channels of aether flow. Of course he didn’t expect to find anything regarding Zodiark, but accounts regarding tempering would have been helpful in easing his worried mind, to say the least. His affinity to the dark would be hard enough to free from Hydaelyn’s chains, and he still had a great many to work through in order to regain just a fraction of his own, Eldritch strength.

“Find anything?”

Hades looked up as the Warrior of Light dropped her blade, perching the tip down into the soft earth. As she began to approach, he could see a sheen of sweat now covering her brow, dripping down the sides of her face and unto the armored chestpiece she wore on her torso.

The Warrior of Light had opted to adorn herself in full regalia this trip, laden with heavy armors and buckles from her neck down to her feet. This had become their normal routine—Hades, reading or researching whilst in the hero’s presence, normally outside, she working through exercises or training with her comrades on the Lakeland battlegrounds. She always asked if he would like to accompany her, of course, usually by summons in the morning or late in the afternoons, but he always found himself willing to attend. It was strange, but Hades supposed being close to the hero, her shard, filled him with nostalgia he and Persephone’s days in the Akademia—staying up into the late hours of morning studying, creating, calculation or debating over common ideas or concepts they hoped to execute in class.

Pointedly, the Ascian closed the book in his lap and tossed it unto the pile of other disappointing, drab reads he’d created to his left. Various scrolls and tomes still sat, unread, to his right, “Nothing of interest, hero.” He gave her armor a onceover, “Taking a break, are we?”

Emilia wiped a hand at her face, still panting from her last round of exercises, “For the moment, yes.”

She watched as he replaced the previous book with another, flipping through its contents for a glossary of terminology and chapter summaries. “Do you need more?” As he looked up to meet her gaze, the hero cleared her throat, “Books, I mean. I can ask the Exarch for others, should you need them, or Urianger?”

“’Tis unnecessary,” He replied, pausing to skim through a selection of paragraphs. Again, nothing, “I’ve already searched what your libraries have to offer on the subject of aether channeling. Unless you’ve another trove of records somewhere, I believe I’ve explored what I can on the subject.”

Emilia hummed, stepping beneath the tree Hades had perched himself under. The lavender leaves had already begun to fade here, as well as to those nearest the Crystarium. Dark burgundy and amethyst now fell from their pale branches, littering the likewise colored grasses in hues of purples and warm palettes of reds. The foliage crunched beneath her greaves, “The Fae have some tomes, I’m sure. I can ask for a few.”

Hades looked up at her, brow raised, “They’ll hand over their knowledge so easily?”

Her chuckle caught him off guard, “Mayhap not me, but to Urianger they will.” She smiled, “He’s an ally to them—I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if he borrowed a few for a friend.”

“Hmm,” The Ascian scowled. As old as the Fae were, they could perhaps hold some knowledge regarding his recent searches—of any living entity upon the First, they’d been present the longest. “My thanks.”

Emilia watched as he flipped through a few more pages, then turned back and began setting out upon another series of her drills. Since their discussion regarding Amaurot and Hythlodaeus, both she and the Ascian had avoided any further questions regarding her past or recent dreams. She felt sated by his responses, at least in the confirmation that the city was what she had believed it to be, and had instead began to refocus her attentions on the fissures in her chest.

The nightmares were sated for the time being, looping over and over into a familiar pattern Emilia was now well versed with. When she woke at night, covered in sweat, she’d jot down what she could remember of them in the journal by her bedside table. Sometimes she was successful in remembering the details, sometimes not, but as long as she could log some of the dream’s main features and return to it in writing, then she didn’t feel it necessary to continue questioning the Ascian over them.

Besides Emet-Selch, over the passing days, had divulged that he hoped to work through and reobtain some of the control on his aether. He’d unveiled just as much to the rest of the Scions, who agreed that it would prove to benefit all parties in the long run; he having the ability to protect himself and aid them, and they in having their Warrior of Light restored and whole. Recently he’d also begun discussing, with the Exarch and others, how searching out the remaining shards of the hero’s soul could also stand to weigh in their benefit—she being sundered and incomplete.

Against Elidibus, whole in his shards and even stronger than that of the Architect seated before them, Emilia would stand little to no chance. As she was, at least, her should couldn’t manage the burden such a battle would bring, white auracite or no. Emet explained this to her comrades, who in turn gathered to the Exarch regarding this matter, who then, in turn, deemed it a cause necessary of their time and efforts. While the Ascian worked to restore his aether, G’raha would be tasked with researching a means to initiate travel between a star other than the First or the Source. When unoccupied, Emet was expected to aid the Exarch in the tower, though they’d only just begun this agreement a night or two ago.

Emilia felt a cool rush of mana sear through her chest and up into her arms, charging her cleaver as it swung and landed unto the spine of the training mannequin. Breathing deep, she continued in her movements—dodging to the left, weaving the blade around herself, twist, then plunge the blade forward into the torso of the figure. After she made two, full passes around the mannequin, she began again, dodging to her right instead of left. With each landing, a drone-like ring would sound from the body of the target, mend, then sit in wait for her next wave of attacks.

Hades, bored now with the text in his hands, took to watching as the Warrior of Light moved, intrigued by her routine. This one was slightly longer than the one he’d seen her complete in the previous days; before, it was simply a dodge in either direction, weave of hand and footwork, reposition of her sword, then cleave through the figure. The twist she’d added was new, but he supposed with the circular movements she’d now begun to incorporate around the mannequin’s body, it would be necessary in order to stay facing her target for each initial strike. Interesting that she thought to add it, it seemed to allow her time for a parry, be it the routine could be completed quick enough.

As she continued with the second wave of strikes, the Ascian allowed himself to watch these as well. It began with a burst of mana from her hand, spiked and black as it landed unto the figure’s chest, then wove straight into a forward lunge of she and the blade. The momentum spun the hero into a flip and ended with her bringing the cleaver down unto the skull of the mannequin, it’s chest ringing as her feet would meet back with the ground. As she steadied, the blade was brought up again, through the length of the dummy, then carved down and across, diagonal to her stance.

Hades watched as she repeated these newer movements, thinking back to their battle, together in the Tempest. The fight had grown harder to remember, it seemed, despite the guilt that now accompanied each trek into his mind. Each retelling of the tale, he was met with light, or a fragment, a piece of memory he’d lost along the way, before ending with a hole ripped through his chest. Now, he couldn’t recall if the movements the hero wove were the same she’d used against him, though the familiar ferocity in her expression seemed to make him think that at least some were. “Are you done for today, Ascian?”

Emilia slammed her cleaver down into the earth, panting atop the hilt as she positioned to stand it upright in the dirt. Sweat had matted her bangs against her neck and cheeks, the cloth visible from her collar now soaked through with the selfsame moisture. It wasn’t particularly warm outside, if anything he felt the breeze made the temperature slightly cool, or uncomfortable, but with a full set of armor on her movements must have exerted more force to follow through. As she looked at him, the tall ears atop her head flattened against her skull, matching the annoyed expression she now wore on her face.

“I am taking a break, hero,” He replied, coolly, “As it seems you should do, as well.”

As he’d come to accompany the Warrior of Light in her training, Hades had also come to notice trends, or habits, she seemed to have when going through her routines. Often, she’d run through drills repeatedly, start to finish, in slow methodical patterns. She’d have a particular number of them, sometimes three different ones, other times four or five, and from there she’d settle into stretching on the ground—arms, legs, back, etc.

Once warmed up, and stretched, she would set forth with short bursts of those selfsame exercises, that would then gradually grow into full-length routines or battles between she and the chosen mannequin. The longer she worked through these drills of hers, the more tired he noticed she’d become, thus the weaker the glimmer of her soul. It wouldn’t be so much an issue but with this shard’s essence resting before his eyes, he could see the toll these exercises brought upon her aether. Even if he tried to ignore it, the dimming of the bright blue would catch his attention, like a candle slowly coming to the end of its wick in a dark, desolate chamber. By the end of her training, what once was a brilliant cesious sheen would windup muddied, dull, and grey. 

“I’m fine,” The miqo’te huffed, beginning to unlatch the buckles around the plate on her chest. The pieces fell quickly, landing on the ground in a puff of dust and clatter, leaving her in a tight black tunic with dark, emerald sleeves. She tugged at the neck of the shirt, prying it from her skin in an effort to cool off and breathe.

Hades watched as she straightened herself, looking back at the book in his lap, “Nothing there either?”

“Nothing of interest,” He retorted. As she made to unlatch the armor on her forearms, he noticed a shaking in her hands. He knew better than to mention it by now; what was once a concerned inquiry made the Champion quick to silence, earning him naught for conversation the remainder of that day. “Finished, then?”

Emilia looked down at the armor now collected on the ground and shrugged, “I suppose,” She then looked up to the sky, covering her eyes as she sought the location of the sun, “It is near dusk. The others will come to collect me if I don’t show up for dinner, at least.”

“Right,” He murmured, closing the book. “Off we go, then?”

She nodded, “Off we go.”

As Hades began to stack his tomes, Emilia collected her things and brought them over to her cleaver, bunching them up atop the ground she’d pierced for it. Once settled, she made her way back to the Ascian, helping to gather the last of the scrolls he’d brought with him from the Crystarium.

He didn’t bother to object, the first few times he’d tried he was met with glares and retorts, and the arguing didn’t seem to earn him any more favors than his act of concern did. If their Champion wished to help him in carrying his things, then he could allow that much, even if it meant she’d journey back after delivering him to the tower to collect her own equipment and bags.

“Will you perhaps join us, tonight?” Hades looked over as the Warrior of Light began repacking his satchel.

“In your hall of misery and judgement?” He scoffed. “Spare me, hero. I’d rather stay in my quarters.”

Emilia scowled, tossing a bundle of scrolls into the bag—mayhap a little too forcefully. “I said before, they do not mean to judge, Emet.”

The dropping of his honorific title always caught him off guard, “And yet they will, as mortals tend to do.” He challenged, nearly laughing, “I’d rather stay the arguments and unkind looks, if you will.”

The hero’s expression flattened, her ears doing much the same, “Be better than that, then.”

“W—” Hades nearly dropped the book he was holding, now staring back at the hero with more than a measure of shock, “What?”

“You heard me,” Emilia snapped, sitting back on her haunches, “If you think mortals so spiteful, then show them better. You’re mortal now, are you not, Ascian? Can you not be better?”

Hades gathered himself and shook his head, chuckling dryly. Had she forgotten how long he’d lived, the eons in which he’d roamed with their ilk, kin, breathing and dying the same soil, the same air? “Resounding speech, hero.” He smirked, “Is that how you inspired the masses, gathered their support, won their hearts?”

The miqo’te leaned forward, positioning her face between he and the text he’d begun to stack before him. This close, he could see the narrow slits of her eyes bloom outward, like dark petals in a pool of bright, cold water. Their sheen, even more so now, reminded him of the radiance that her soul held when refreshed and light, clear of worry and steadfast in its sheen of silvers and blue. He set his jaw, resisting the urge to move backwards from that gaze, “Have you always been like this?”

“I—” His brow furrowed, “Like _what_?”

“Annoying.”

Hades rolled his eyes. A tension began to settle within his chest, like a gripping sensation warming, thrumming beneath his ribs like needles upon a loom. He could see the sweat that’d stained upon her collar, dewed her face, this close he could smell the grass upon her clothes, mingling with an herbal aroma, like honey and cider, “One could say the same to you, considering.”

“Well, they don’t,” She challenged, then paused. A lock of her streaked hair fell forward, swaying in front of her face as she spoke, “You said you’d be willing to help, to try.”

“You _try _my patience,” He snapped, now leaning away from her, “I’ll not sit and throw myself unto the table to lap at your comrades’ heels, hero. If my efforts in earning their trust shall only provide me with spite in return, ‘tis an errant task I feel best not to waste energy perusing.”

The Warrior of Light grinned, the tufts of her ears perking up and stretching high above the sides of her head. He watched as she lifted a glove clad hand, holding up her index finger between them, “Once.”

“I will not—"

“Once,” Emilia repeated, “If not tonight, at least once.”

Hades swallowed, attempting to avert his eyes from her gripping, blue gaze. He could feel the tension growing heavier, distracting, now, in its insistence, “I will not sit here and make promises,” He hissed. Why did this feel so familiar? “‘Tis a childish game you play, and I will not sink to that level.”

_“Come now, Hades,” Persephone’s hands grasped around his wrists, small in their grip but strong, calloused, holding onto him tightly. He stumbled after her, following as she pulled him down the hallway to their shared quarters, “Please, for me, just shut your eyes.”_

_“P-Persephone,” Anxious tumbles of excitement flickered in his belly, flopping dumbly at the hum of her voice, her giggling. Where they touched, his skin felt hot, “Just tell me what it is, we needn’t go—”_

_“Hush, now,” She pulled harder, nearly sending him falling atop her small frame. “It’s a surprise.”_

The Champion’s dark, altoed laugh made gooseflesh break across his arms and back, shattering the memory he’d begun to evoke. “The great and powerful Ascian is too _mighty_ to have dinner with the Scions?” He could see her mouth, curved and poised into a coy, feline smirk, “I thought you would break _bread_ with us? Did you not promise those selfsame words to Y’shtola? Or was it Urianger?”

“A metaphor,” He gritted out, “Surely you’ve heard of them, _Warrior of Light_?”

“Well versed, as a matter of fact,” Emilia smiled, leaning back over to rest upon her heels. Hades’ eyes followed her own, confused; he could breathe again, but his lungs felt full of that scent, of her. She watched him in turn, shrugging off his acidity, “But I’ll not beg if you wish to be difficult.”

“I am not—”

“I’ve extended an offer, Ascian,” She began to stand, taking his satchel and tomes into her arms, “Do with it as you will.”

.

The books felt heavier as he ascended the stairs, more so with each and every flight he managed to climb. Hades had exchanged what he could at the libraries, lightening the load he now bore back to his rooms, but he didn’t hold much hope for these tomes. If they were anything like the other’s he’d read, then he would be left with the same prospect come morning—another trip, another exchange, another pointless waste of his time. The hero did promise to pass word on to the Astrologian; Fae text would surely provide further insight than these mortal retellings, though it would be a few days before he’d receive them, he was sure.

Hades grunted as he broached the final landing, arms now weary and weak from their trek through Lakeland and the Crystarium. He was beginning to feel a pang of guilt, though he wasn’t entirely sure why—The Architect had denied their hero’s offers to join she and her comrades for dinner on multiple occasions, this instance should be no different. Why should he subjugate himself to their tiresome ramblings and suspicious looks, anyway, did he not receive enough just in passing from his chambers to their libraries? Their Champion knew of his distaste for her empath regardless, he voiced as much in their previous meetings, so why go through the effort of inviting him now?

As Hades began to approach his rooms, he felt a tug of aether, familiar, strong, swell from beyond the hall’s threshold and forward, lunging deep into his chest. He paused, watching as the pull began to manifest, brighten, until it was stretched out through the halls like powder, fine and shimmering. His brow furrowed, confused by the rummaging he felt taking place within his own soul, essence—no one he’d met upon this star held power enough to will their aether manifest, not even the Warrior of Light, this felt familiar, though, like a greeting, a…

A soft laugh filled his mind_, “Emet-Selch.”_

Hades blood ran cold, his own miniscule spirit retreating and bowing in upon itself, hiding from the power he felt now reaching and tugging around from within him, searching, _learning_.

Calmly, he stepped forward, following the trail of bright, irreverent aether—silvery, though glimmering with deep, radiant purples. It’d been long since Hades had witnessed aether from a soul Unsundered, it was an unspoken taboo from their time in the Convocation, for any without bond, or love at least. To share this aether, that is, to use it for advantage, to tap into thoughts, feelings, it could be used to bend one’s will, to discover what some may not freely tell, for Elidibus to do so now… The doors to the Ascian’s room began to unlock and twist, folding into the walls in scissoring, twisting machinations of gold and blue crystal ascending up unto the chamber’s ceiling. As Hades stepped inside, he locked eyes with the Emissary now standing near his cot, one of his books in hand.

“Aetherology,” The white-robed Ascian mused, golden talons now twined beneath his chin in thought. As the doors behind him began to shut, he flipped a page, “…Curious.”

Hades cleared his throat, stepping aside to place down the tomes he’d carried from the library. His arms silently thanked him, relieved of their duty for the evening, “Emissary, to what to I owe this pleasure?

Elidibus’ crimson beaked mask looked up from the text, turning to him slowly, “You are alive, are you not?”

The aether that’d been visible before now dissipated all at once, fading into the air as a myriad of purple and grey smoke. Without the Sight, he doubted any other could have seen the phenomena, inside or outside of his chamber’s, but he supposed it wouldn’t matter; all of the hero’s comrades would be busy with dinner or with their Exarch in the Ocular. As the tension in the room began to fade, Hades flinched as his essence began to stretch, grow within himself once more, “Mortal, yes.”

“Interesting,” The Emissary flipped another page, looking back to the book in his hands. He sighed, “I see the Warrior of Light proved to best even you, in the end.”

A quell of anger rushed into Hades’ chest, pulsing hard and hot to the accusation. Did his comrade not blind him, _lie_ to him, regarding Persephone’s soul? Did he not manipulate him into awakening at Lahabrea’s demise, goad him into lurking upon the Source, while all this time, her shard remained at but a _breath’s_ distance? “She did, though I will admit myself a measure surprised to find that one of _her_ shards resided upon this Star.” He snapped, “’Twas a realization made too late, considering the blade she’d wrought through my chest.”

Elidibus paused as he begun to turn the page, looking back to Hades slowly, carefully. His gaze rested upon the scar that lurked beneath the taller’s shirt, a glaring reminder of the battle he’d fought in their recreated, glimmer of home. “You seem wary of me,” He stated, coolly, “I assure you, your tribulation against the Warrior of Light was by design, Emet-Selch. I’ve come with no intent, no ill regard, though I sense much in you, besides.”

“You told me she was _gone_,” The words left his mouth before he could think, acidic and venomous in the air, “You told me her shards were beyond that of the Rejoining, for _eons_ you told me of her inability to be resurrected, _condemned_ for her departure from the Convocation.” His voice was growing in strength, heat, “You said she was lost and shattered, broken by _Hydaelyn’s_ design—”

“Have I lied?” Elidibus interrupted, “The _hero_ that you deign to folly, is she not shattered? Lost?”

Hades could feel his fists shaking, trembling with a century’s worth of rage and sorrow, “Do not play games, _Emissary_.”

A soft chuckle resounded from the white-robed man, “You say as such to me, Emet-Selch, yet look at you—catering the Mother, coddling and conforming to her Light-bearers as a stone in water, dissolving, _weakening_.”

He turned fully, now, facing Hades as his head tilted in thought, the front of his red-beaked mask following, “Lord Zodiark has sensed your faltering,” He stated, calm, “I did not know to what extent, until I saw the bindings upon your aether, soul, for myself.” A pause, “She has gentled you, has she not?”

When Hades didn’t respond, the Emissary chuckled, placing the tome he held back with others stacked upon the ground. Twice, now, the mortal Ascian could feel his blood run cold; of course he would know of Hydaelyn’s interference, how could he not? Hades hadn’t the strength to even fight back, withdraw his soul, as Elidibus searched through his essence, it was near obvious to see the Light staked within his aether, even for one without the Sight. 

“A shame, truly,” Elidibus mused, stepping forward, “I suppose that explains your topic of interest, as well?” Hades watched as he gestured to the new pile of books he’d placed upon the floor.

“I don’t see how this concerns you,” He countered, cool, detached, “Why are you here? Why now?”

The Emissary flashed a soft smile, shrugging, “I came to offer succor to one of our own; despite this…_misstep, _you were _resurrected_, most _eminent, Emet-Selch_.” He flinched at his title, “Death would have provided us with yet another office to replace, fill—now, well…the rejoining of your aether ‘tis but a trivial chore.”

Hades took a step back, deigning to create space between he and his comrade. “Rejoining of my aether?”

“Yes?” Elidibus stated, advancing, “Why is it you think I’ve come?”

“’Tis why I _asked_,” The taller snapped, “You wouldn’t muddy your hands here, not within the Warrior of Light’s own walls—not without reason.”

The Emissary stopped, again, tilting his mask in thought. The pause in his step, his demeanor, brought his attention once more onto the other man’s aether—again reaching, searching. “You mistrust me…”

Hades paused in turn, realizing what he’d just done. He’d stood to question Elidibus, he, an Unsundered, without punishment, without fear—without _Temperment_. “’Tis truly…” Elidibus sighed, deep, heavy. The stark disappointment that lit his voice stilled them both, weighing down the shorter man’s shoulders in a posture familiar to the mortal Ascian, “So very unlike you, Emet-Selch…’Tis so unlike you, to ‘err, so gravely.”

“That one would stray at the end of so onerous a path is understandable. Yet…I had thought you above such _weakness_…mayhap you thought the same?” The Architect’s throat ran dry as he sensed the Emissary’s aether retreat from his core once more, “Would that I have been present upon that end, to correct, to _conduct_, mayhap this…would have ended differently.”

Hades clenched his fists, reignited in his anger, “I do not require _correction_, Elidibus.”

The red-beaked Ascian offered him a soft, pitiful smile, shaking his head in return. “No, no now…you would require _guidance_,” He stated, “Though it would be rude of me to offer such before you’ve been reunited with our Fourteenth.”

White-hot rage seared through the Architect, propelling his body forward before the thought of repercussions crossed through his mind. In that instant, Hades’ scarred, mangled hands wrapped around the base of the Emissary’s hood, jerking him back into the wall of his chambers with a hard, hollow, thud. The cloth fell away from the shorter man’s face upon impact, revealing a long ponytail of silvery, layered hair and an equally pale, masked face. Elidibus chuckled as Hades’ hands dug against his flesh, pressing upon his throat with a force the mortal didn’t even know he still had, “Do not speak of her as if you are _associated_,” Hades hissed. Had he his aether, his power, he was sure he’d have descended well past his mortal form by now, “Do not even deign to **_utter_** her name, not to me. You remember nothing of her, nothing of who she was, not then, and not now.”

The Emissary wheezed, “I…shall endeavor not to, _Emet-Selch_, though a-answer me…” He chuckled again, fighting for air between the force closing down on his windpipe, “Is it for their C-Champion, whom you defend so readily, or the shard t-that will consume her upon their Rejoining?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> To save you all a myriad of apologies for the lateness on this chapter update, I'd rather say thank you to all of you who have read, continue to read, or support this story as I have been away. As I began to work on it again, it really warmed my heart to see everyone's lovely comments, the amazing kudos (we surpassed 100, what?!?), and all of the other love I've received in the recent drawings inspired by these chapters, characters, and the like. 
> 
> With the recent happenings, I will simply leave it at this: I hope you are all well, safe, happy, and continue to be as we continue onto whatever our weird futures may hold. <3 
> 
> Also...I...my mind wanted to write sauce...so...so badly...b-but I restrained myself...this time... It's coming though...I hope you guys are buckled in. ;) 
> 
> If you'd like to see Emilia/D've/Yvette art, feel free to check my twitter, I post the arts there --> https://twitter.com/MagicaAria
> 
> Also, if you guys are on the search for a wonderful, inclusive, and supportive Emet/FFXIV fanfic community, I urge you to come by and join this discord! Be sure to mention what fic sent you - many of us lurk around AO3 with fics in this same pairing, among many many MANY others! Here is the INV link for any interested friends! ---> https://discord.gg/3qXRR4G


	14. Tousled

The white-haired man smiled as he ducked into the Bard’s chambers, grinning at the sight of her small, lithe frame sprawled out atop her bed. She stretched out on her stomach, both arms twisted beneath piles of fluffy down pillows and tangled layers of patterned quilts, snoring. He suppressed a chuckle, the latter was bunched up beneath her head as she slept, squishing her face into an endearing, albeit funny, expression. As he drew the door closed, the Dragoon could spot her long, scaled tail twisting pleasantly around her leg, the tip twitching in time with her breathing.

Estinein hummed as he approached, his chest hammering in pleasant, wrapped excitement. It’d been too long since he’d seen her, held her, even longer since he’d heard the woman’s voice, inhaled her scent and warmth. As he met with the side of Yvette’s bed, the Dragoon bent above her form, holding himself up against her headboard with one hand the other sliding beneath the blankets to rest lovingly at the curve in her waist. “Do you always look so vulnerable when you’re sleeping?” He whispered, placing a chaste kiss at the edge of her upturned jaw. “I thought you to be one of Hydaelyn’s Champions?”

“Hn…Do you always make a habit of sneaking into women’s rooms at night?” Her sleep-saturated voice quipped, though the sharpness of it was lost in her exhaustion, “Or am I just this lucky?”

He smirked, “Lucky, I suppose.”

Yvette could feel his rough, calloused fingers stroking over her hip, pausing to trace the outline of her tan scales and equally raised scars. For a moment, she couldn’t remember what she’d worn to bed—it had to be one of the cotton sets Tataru had woven for she and D’ve, but what was the color again? The au’ra huffed as the strands of the taller man’s hair began to fall from above her, dangling and tickling as they brushed her exposed skin, “Don’t just stand there all creepily…” When he didn’t make to respond she huffed, “Lay with me.”

Estinein chuckled, “I’m only in to wish you a good morning, Yvette, I don’t intend to stay.”

“You woke me up before _dawn_,” The woman brushed a hand between the long white hair that draped over her, looking up at him with a hard glare, “You’ll stay, and you’ll lay with me, you owe that much.”

“Now, you know—”

The bright umbral rings that glowed around her eyes reflected in the low light of the room, coloring her skin and scales in a light shade of lilac and amethyst. As he met her gaze, her brow furrowed, crinkling the remainder of her face into a look he knew all too well—there was no sense in arguing, “Lay down.”

Estinein sighed and pushed a hand into the au’ra’s back, shoving her aside to make room for him to lay behind her. Yvette made a garbled noise, somewhere between a giggle and a surprised yelp, before rolling over and turning so she could face the Dragoon in full, now situated on the left side of the wooden, four post bed. He slid in behind her, tucking his arm beneath the smaller woman and pulling her figure in, enclosing her against his chest.

“When did you come in?” Yvette asked, running her hands over the cloth of his shirt. He wore a leather trimmed blouse, wrapped down the length of his torso with equal leather threads and silver brocades. This close to him, she could smell hints of dirt and rosemary, a faint musk that she knew all too well to be his—it smelled like the fires in the Foundation. It reminded her of heat and comfort, of days, nights, spend sprawled beneath a large stone hearth with glasses of sweet, crisp wine. Yvette breathed deep, settling herself against the planes of his chest with a sigh.

“Shortly after you retired,” He mused, “Your Scion friend told me you and the Summoner had returned, but you were both tired and in need of rest. I was tasked with a few errands in the meantime--”

“So that’s where you were…” She mumbled, yawning. Of course Tataru would run him around, Krile too—they knew how long it’d been since they’d seen each other, let alone in…private.

He smirked as his hand trailed back over her hips, sinking below the hem of her shirt to the mixture of soft skin and scaled trimmings beneath. One bright, lavender ringed eye opened up at him, watching in amusement as he allowed himself to nuzzle into her shoulder, “Were you worried I wouldn’t come to see you?”

“Why should I have been?” Yvette countered, trying to ignore the patterns he now traced over her hip, “You skulk about in the shadows well enough, I figured you’d hear about my return sooner or later.”

Estinein leaned against her, crushing her frame up against him as if bracing the both of them for a fall. The smaller woman grunted in surprise, writhing at the sudden, crushing pressure that held her fast up against the tall Dragoon’s body. “Glad am I that I came before the latter,” He sighed, “’Tis been long enough since I’ve held you like this.”

Yvette’s cheeks blossomed a bright, heated red, “N-now quit _that_,” She hissed, pushing against him, “I can’t breathe like this, you’re going to _snap me in half_..!”

He chuckled, rolling over to trap her beneath him with a sweep of his long legs and arms. The indignant, unbridled shock that stared back at him made him laugh, “I wouldn’t dare dream of it, not with one as strong as _you_, My Lady.”

“Oh, quit it, you!” Yvette slapped at his breast, turning her head away from him with a huff. Her blush had crept well past her cheeks, flaring down her neck and woefully visible, thanks to her luminating eyes. “We need to wake shortly, you know,” She grumbled, “You’re being coy on purpose.”

“I’ve been called many things, but never _coy_.” Estinein leaned down, gently pressing his lips to her temple, “I’ve simply come to lie with you before the sun rises,” He trailed the kisses across her forehead, “You even asked me to, mind you.”

When she made no response, he chuckled, lowering his mouth to murmur against her cheekbone, “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“N-No,” She huffed, and after a moment of silence, “…Stay.”

Estinein grinned and leaned forward, pinning her mouth with his own in a slow, familiar kiss.

.

Hades clenched his fists, sitting up in his cot with a growl of frustration.

_“I…shall endeavor not to, Emet-Selch, though a-answer me…” The Emissary chuckled again, rasping, “Is it for their C-Champion, whom you defend so readily, or the shard t-that will consume her upon their Rejoining?”_

_Hades pressed his fingers further into the smaller man’s throat, growling, “Not even you could know what will happen once she’s whole, Elidibus.”_

_The red-beaked mask turned up to Hades in mock question, “But surely you see how foolish this endeavor is?” _

_“I will not stand against her again,” He snapped, “Azem should have the choice, the option to redeem her soul for what it was or to live on as she is.”_

_A sudden wave of pain struck down Hades’ arm, causing the muscles within to spasm and jerk against his will. He hissed, cradling the limb against his chest; the skin beneath his sleeve crawled, chilled by the blast of the shorter’s heavy aether. _

_“How ready you are to leap to their Scion’s cause, to abandon the course we’ve set for so many years, eons,” The Emissary chuckled, rubbing absentmindedly at the length of his newly freed throat. “’Tis truly a shame. I’d of thought you the most steadfast, considering your memories have remained so whole. Did you not once mock me, for my fading memory, my lack of empathy?”_

Grumbling, Hades snapped out of bed and began pacing about his room.   
How naïve of him to have forgotten about Elidibus, to have thought himself almost…free, from his interruptions, his observations. He’d been a concern in the back of his mind, of course, but Zodiark would not forgo his control so easily. Naïve.

_Hades sneered, standing back on his feet, “Regardless, I’m sure you haven’t come all this way to palaver over souls, Emissary. What is it that you want?” _

_Elidibus watched him, his gaze falling down to the taller man’s chest. The mortal Ascian could sense his aether reaching, again, for his own—inspecting, stretching the borders as it had as he’d reached the landing outside. “Your essence, Emet-Selch,” He stated, “Surely you have seen it, attuned as you are?”_

_“I’m aware of the binds, if that’s what you’re referring to.” He snapped._

_“Have you been successful in... breaking them yourself?” Elidibus stated, hand now on his chin in thought. _

_Hades clenched his fists, of course he’d know. For a fleeting moment, the mortal cursed himself for not having worked harder to shatter the remaining chains; the hero’s essence had taken up the majority of his efforts of late, granted, but still… They needed to buy time for her to heal, to regain her shards, and Hades needed to avert his attentions to the hold Hydaelyn seemed to have over his aether. A bluff would be best, “I’m managing well enough.”_

_“Hmm,” The other man’s aether began to fade back within himself. “Interesting.”_

_“If the only reason you’ve come is to chide me over my choices and test my patience, you’ve done what you’ve sought to do.” Hades hissed. _

_The longer the Emissary stayed, the heightened chance that one of their Scions could sense the density of his aether. The Exarch, with his attunement to the Tower, could at least tell if there was an intrusion he was sure, and if not he or the others, then surely the Warrior of Light would feel the presence._

_Elidibus let out a heavy sigh, “Your…suspicious nature is surely something to note…No, ‘tis not the only reason I’ve come.” He paused, seeming to gauge the mortal’s reaction before continuing, “…I’ve come to offer you my aid.”_

_When Hades made no move to respond, the white-clad Ascian held out his hand, lighting his palm once more with aether, “With my strength, I can assist you in freeing the last of your aether from Hydaelyn’s control. I can see it, Emet-Selch, I know what you’ve lost upon awakening once more.”_

He’d denied him, of course.

The offer was tempting, but even if he had wanted to, Elidibus now carried the weight of Zodiark’s will. An Unsundered acting to do so as well, well…it was much too dangerous for him now, mortal as he was, though it was curious the Emissary continued to regard him as his own title, Emet-Selch. Vanquished as he had become, he should have fallen from his rank amongst the Convocation in death, though…perhaps that was the purpose in why his comrade sought to help him. Alive once more, and aether sealed, he could be risen again to the ranks of Emet-Selch again, with the risk of being…tempered, of course.

The idea of it, becoming a thrall to the Father, Zodiark, once more, even in the slightest, Hades could no longer chance—not now, not being aware of the things he has seen. Moreover, it was a threat—not only to himself, now rid of his immortality, but to the hero on her course. Tempered again, would he even remember her, the things they’d been through thus far? What about the soul of which he was now aware she housed? No doubt Zodiark would wipe what he could of his mind upon the second tempering, to alleviate any question or hesitation in his loyalty—even as an immortal Hades was already a questionable follower, which he was sure both the Father and Elidibus knew. He wouldn’t do it again—not at the risk of losing the hero’s soul.

Hm.

That gave him pause.

The _hero’s_ soul?

Another thought to mull over, he supposed. Elidibus, too, had mentioned as much, questioning which one Hades hoped to awaken upon the gathering of the Warrior of Light’s soul shards. Somewhat disappointing to know he’d already suspected their plan for defeating him, though nothing could be done about it now—they either had to retrieve the hero’s shards, or fall beneath Elidibus’ final charge on the First.

Hades wanted to know, however, who he truly hoped would survive in the end, once fully rejoined with her shards. He didn’t want to think that he’d shown this companionship, kindness, of late simply because of the soul the hero bore within her—how shallow, empty, would that seem be it that were the case? It could be, of course, but he wanted to think that he…_cared_ for her, in some regard. This Warrior of Light has lived another life, lived through battles, triumphs, loss and love, everything—that in and of itself should make him feel something, knowing that all of those memories, people she loved, helped, saved, would be absorbed and lost into one that once was, into Persephone, into his Azem, and…destroyed.

It would be selfish of him to want that, would it not?

“Prithee, may I take’st a moment of thine time, Emet-Selch?” Hades turned, surprised to find the Astrologian standing in his doorway. A selection of worn, wood bound tomes and scrolls of tattered parchment littered his arms, a tray of food balanced atop them.

“Of course,” He started, stepping over to assist him. He hadn’t heard the Astrologian enter, but of all of the hero’s companions, he’d grown to appreciate the knowledge and space this one provided him with the most. Hades glanced over a few of the book’s spines as he took a set from the bottom of his arms, “Thank you, for these.”

Urianger nodded, placing his stack near the other man’s cot with a bow. Hades, in turn, took the tray of food and placed it atop his bed for later. He was pleased to note that the contents resembled the others he’d received from the hero in the previous days; laden with smoked sausages, yolky eggs, and other various bread products like toast and sweet rolls. “The Warrior of Light said that thee requireth further text on Aetherology—I’ve brought what I was able to procure from Il Mheg.”

“Again, I thank you,” Hades gave a slight bow of his head, his interest peaked by the odd language which littered the parchments before him. It’d been a few years since he’d read through a full Fae text, “A new perspective may be more beneficial in finding what I’m looking for.”

The Astrologian seemed to consider him for a moment, but nodded nonetheless, “Mayhap it will.”

.

D’ve let out a long yawn as he stretched out by the fireplace, reaching out for his coffee as he began to settle back into his armchair. The two lalafellen women sat on either side of him, each drinking of their own warm beverages as they flicked through stacks of letters and papers gathered atop their laps.

“So that’s the right of it then,” Tataru stated, tossing aside yet another letter, “The Alliance is at a stand-by, though the reports say the Garlean forces seem to have been pushed back for now.”

“Nothing new on Zenos,” Krile added, “Or Black Rose.”

D’ve considered the two of them for a moment, crossing his legs atop each other in thought. “You said Estinein and Gaius had been searching for Black Rose though, right?” The miqo’te asked between sips. He’d recalled Emilia mentioning it back on the First, between conversations of her travels and the issues becoming their star.

Krile clicked her tongue, “They _are_, or were, before the Dragoon came by for his little visit.”

D’ve ignored the bite in her tone, “So, Gaius is around as well?”

“Somewhere, yes, I believe.”

“Well…If he’s here, then I’ll leave Yvette to go with the two of them.” He hummed, “She can have a little more time with Estinein, and I’m sure another set of eyes would do them well if they’re going to be infiltrating the Empire’s borders again, which I imagine they will.”

Both lalafell choked on their drinks, “I… Y-you’re saying that you’re going to meet the Alliance alone?” Tataru whispered, as if his plan was a secret, “D’ve, I don’t think—“

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” He interrupted, placing his cup back on the side table, “Yvette was once a Ninja. Even though she’s taken up a bow, the range she can offer those two in terms of scouting will be beneficial to their search. Much more than mine, at least.”

He gestured to the large tome at his side before continuing, “Besides, I don’t need an escort. I’ll be quick, in and out. When I return we can plan what our next course should be, whilst they gather information on what needs to be done with Black Rose.”

Krile shook her head, scowling, “I don’t think it’s a good idea...”

“He…He bested even Emilia, I think it’s best to air with caution.” Tataru murmured, “If there were two of you, at least to divert his attention, I think...”

“I understand why you’re nervous,” D’ve smiled, “But trust me, I can manage. Given that the Garlean’s have yet to move, I’d wager my coin purse that Zenos is no longer on the battlefield, even.”

“That’s a big risk to leave up to just a feeling.” The smaller, yellow-clad Lalafellen mumbled, shaking her head.

“We all know it’s too boring for him to wait, too political, he wouldn’t just stand idly by while we make movements forward.” He stated, “Until the Alliance makes their next move, at least, I think it’s safe to assume I can make the journey there alone.”

.

As he exited the doors of the Tower, the bustling noise of the courtyard greeted Hades with a cacophonous wash of sound. Merchants, Guards, and Adventurers sauntered through in various pacing’s, moving on to the markets or discussing various points about the weather, all ignoring him as they passed. Hades scowled up at the bright sun, making his way down the stairs at a slow, grumbling pace.

It was slightly warmer today, a small spike compared to the descending chill that’d been present every morning before. His joints seemed to appreciate the difference, though he did slightly miss the bitter breeze as he began to make his way across the courtyard. He’d dressed a little too warmly, mayhap—the ribbed turtleneck felt comfortable, but the duster, boots, and thick linen trousers made him feel heavy and hot. In his defense, the heftier clothing was all he had left, and he felt too forward to ask if he could have others—it didn’t seem a necessity.

Hades rolled his shoulders and he set forth towards the markets, in search of the café he and the hero’s comrades had attended the few days prior. Urianger had agreed to allow him leave for the coffee, their compromise being that he’d attend him in the Crystarium Library after to assist in sorting the stacks. It was supposed to be kind, but the Ascian knew the intent was to discuss his findings he’d uncovered in the fae text, or converse over the Allagans again. It felt childish, receiving permission, though the Astrologian had treated him with a respect he wasn’t quite used to, being the one to prompt him to go rather than having him ask. Caffeine had felt familiar and comforting in his system, and once he was reminded of it, it was sorely missed—and so here he was, walking to the markets to procure a cup for himself.

“Does everyone have their things?”

The Ascian looked up, swallowing hard as his gaze suddenly met with the hero’s bright, slitted eyes. A small cohort of children, all of various races and height, stood around the woman with smiling, happy faces. Normally, Hades didn’t think he’d mind crossing her path, but their group was blocking the western-most entrance to the markets, the route he needed to take to the café. As he glanced over them, he noted wicker baskets were held in each of the children’s arms, two taller boys holding burlap sacks atop their shoulders as well as the basket.

“Good morning, Emet.” The Champion’s eyes sparkled back at him, amusement and a smug curve of curiosity curling at her mouth. He hadn’t noticed her before he’d stumbled upon her group, or heard her for that matter—just what was she doing out here, with a bunch of children no less?

He swallowed, taking in the woman’s attire with an air of confusion. No armor, this time, but she wore a long trench jacket and scarf, each dyed a various shade of off-white, with greys and blacks accenting the fringe or detailed embroidery on either. It was too large for her, nearly hanging off her shoulders, but the color struck him—she normally wore plates, chainmail, and none had ever been dyed such a striking shade. In fact, he couldn’t ever remember seeing her in anything that was white; she seemed to prefer darker colors, like burgundies, or blacks.

A large wooden axe was tied upon her back, it’s handle laced with leather belts that reached across her torso and stretched to her hips, meeting with buckles that held the latter together. Other bags were latched across her waist, housing sheers or daggers that poked out from between the latching’s and belts, with dark pants and knee-high leather boots rounding off the last of her outfit.

It was…different, seeing her without a traditional weapon at her side, particularly the large cleaver he’d grown familiar to seeing her with over the past sennight or so. She too seemed to be watching him, taking him in, though the amusement never left her face as she did. With a huff, the Warrior of Light placed a hand on her hip, clearing her throat to draw his attention, “_Ahem_, Good _morning_, Emet.

Hades snapped his gaze away, realization that he’d been caught staring dawning on him as he averted his focus to the stonework on his left, rather than the gaze of the woman in front of him. Heat rose to his cheeks almost immediately, “The…uh,” A clear of his throat, “The same to you, hero.”

“Hey,” A small girl, no older than her fifth nameday, reached up and began to tug on his coat sleeve in earnest. He looked down at her, watching as she swung both arms beneath the clenched fistfuls of his clothes, her basket bobbing back and forth against her forearms as she did so. The girl had fluffy, petite ears with a short-bobbed tail, their color dyed the same as her ponytailed, lilac hair. Happy green eyes sparkled up at him, wide and round with wonder, “Are you Lady Emilia’s friend?”

_Friend_ may have been a bit of a stretch, but she railed on before he could choke out a response, “Lady Emilia, is he one of your friends? Will he be coming with us? He’ll come, right?”

The Warrior of Light’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead, “I…I’m not sure, Sy’nath,” She looked back to the Ascian, as if waiting for him to intercede, and smiled, “That’s not really for me to decide.”

“’Tis quite rude to grab onto people, _child_.” Hades mumbled, prying his sleeve from the little girl’s hands. Even the children threw the hero’s name about like it was a toy, “Particularly those you don’t know.”

Her lower lip stuck out in a hard, well-practiced pout, “I’ll have you know, Mister…” The girl trailed, “Well, I’d know your name if you would tell us, Mister…uh…”

For a split moment, The Ascian felt the urge to speak his name, his true name, the one he’d uttered to the Champion before his fall in the ruined replica of Amaurot. The name his mother had carefully crafted, the name that bound him to the stream of aether that flowed between all living things, and dead. Long, _long_, had it been since he’d felt that impulse, not even amongst his brother’s had he deigned to do so—‘twas taboo, both in their culture then, and now. He sighed, being in the hero’s presence seemed to stir the idea, but this ‘twas not the time, nor place, to break that tradition. “You may call me Solus.”

“Solus!” Sy’nath brightened, “Mister Solus, you’ll come with us, right? We’re going to Lakeland, you know, and the Warrior of Darkness is going with us!”

“We don’t need some old guy tagging along…” Another child chimed in, glaring up at him. This one resembled the Elves, slightly older in age with dark blue hair, freckled skin, and deep brown eyes. His look was challenging, “We have stuff to gather, we wouldn’t want him breaking his _back_ trying to bend over for herbs.”

As a few of the children began to chuckle, Hades arranged himself with more than a twinge of annoyance, now towering up to his full height. Disrespectful boy. “Come now,” Hydaelyn’s Champion was looking to the child, hand still on her hip, “I believe that was uncalled for, was it not, Byren?”

The child puffed out his chest and turned his head. A faint blush had colored his cheeks upon her rebuttal, “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking…”

“Well, _I _want him to come!” Sy’nath stated, grabbing back hold of Hades’ sleeve.

As the Ascian looked back to the child, making to take his arm back for himself, another two of the children, one a Hume and another a Drahn, came over and took hold of him in the same manner. “If he’s Lady Emilia’s friend, he can come, Byren.” The hume stated, wrapping her small arms around his waist.

“Yeah,” The drahn chided, grabbing hold of his belt loop. She puffed out her chest and stuck her tongue out to him, blowing mockingly, “You’re just jealous because he’s so much taller than you!”

Emilia began to laugh as other, smaller children moved to encircle the Ascian, taking hold of him wherever their small arms and hands could grasp hold of. He looked to her, shocked, and nearly tripped over them as he tried to push them away. He’d enjoyed teaching children, in his past lives, but he was never good with…handling them, “A-A little help, hero?”

“Not a fan of kids, _Solus_?” She positively beamed, tilting her head to him in a gesture of pure, frustrating mockery. She didn’t know, but in that moment, she looked every bit the part of Azem, and sounded like her too.

“At a distance,” He hissed, attempting to push the girl from his waist. Her stress of his name, or rather his vessel’s name, stirred a light hammer in his chest, “Or on a leash.”

The Warrior of Light gave a light whistle, grabbing the attention of the children gathered between she and the Ascian. “Mister _Solus_ would like a little space, please,” She stated, choking down a laugh at his immediate show of relief, “So long as you all behave, I think we may even _persuade_ my _friend_ to come with us?”

Hades’ face fell into a look of near horror as the children began to cheer, chanting and arguing over who would get to pick herbs with The Warrior of Darkness’ _tall friend_. He sighed as Emilia maneuvered over to his side, the same smug expression plastered on her face as before.

“Apologies,” She smirked, watching as the children began to gather into a line. “I know you may have had other plans besides picking herbs today, but it at least freed you for the moment.”

He scowled—avoiding the Library would be unimportant, but he _had_ been looking forward to a cup of coffee. “Yes, well,” Hades noted her expression and felt his cheeks warm, “The apology seems less meaningful when you snicker so, hero.”

“Apologies for the lack of sincerity then.”

Hades began to smooth his clothes, eyeing the children in favor of looking the Champion in the eye, “…I will not be carrying one of those baskets.”

She hummed, ears twitching thoughtfully along either side of her head. “And here I was led to believe you toppled nations, empires, oh great Emet-Selch, pardon, _Solus_.” He resisted the urge to twitch at her mockery, “It’s interesting that you act as if _children_ may be the end of you.” 

“It was more than just _one_ child,” He muttered, straightening the lapels of his jacket, “And they were not the end of me if you remember, _hero_.”

As the words left his mouth, realization dawned on Hades as to just what _exactly_ he’d said, and in what way he’d implemented. He paused, searching Emilia’s expression as she quieted; it’d fallen, her eyes now filled with a look of regret and palpable, fragile humility. She tried to hide it behind a smile, but it hurt him to look at it, “Ah, right.”

And with that, the hero turned from him and began to lead the pack of children towards the gates of the Crystarium, back the way he’d come through the courtyard. A few of the children had opted to walk alongside him rather than in line with the rest, their little hands holding onto the hem of his pockets and duster as they walked. He let them, even though the prospect annoyed him slightly—he’d said enough already, the last thing he needed was to insult one and have them cry.

It was less busy now as they made their way across, but he felt uncomfortable being in their company, as innocent as it may have seemed to the civilian’s eye. It was uncalled for, making that jab towards the hero—he’d offered cooperation, again, stated he’d make well to let the past lie where it lie, yet he said that. How was he to expect she, her Scions, to do the same when he offered a statement such as that in return? He ran his hands through his hair, sighing. She was just teasing him, making palaver; why in the world did he resort to saying that?

As their group passed through the gates of the Crystarium, he in tow of their cohort, the temperamental Gunbreaker stepped into their path. His arms laid crossed atop his chest, tightening as his gaze met Hades’.

“And just where is _he_ going?” He called to the hero

“Emet-Selch will be spending the afternoon with us in Lakeland,” Emilia called, waving her hand to him dismissively, “We’ll be gathering herbs for the kitchens if you need us.”

The man’s hazel glare turned cold, flashing between her and the Ascian suspiciously, “He was supposed to meet with Urianger, I was told.”

The Warrior of Light began gesturing the children down the stairwell to the forests below, “He was, but when I asked for help watching the children, Emet so graciously volunteered his time,” The hero stated, shrugging, “The kids wanted him to come as well, far be it from me to deny them.”

Thancred gave a noncommittal huff, watching as the little cohort began to pass him by. The hero turned as well, chaperoning the kids the rest of the way down the stairs. As Hades made to descend the stairwell, the Gunbreaker eyed the little hands gripping onto his jacket, a smirk spreading on his lips. “A regular saint, aren’t you, Ascian?”

.

“So the Warrior of Light has been taken to the…First,” Merlwyb considered, frowning. The leaders of the respective Alliances sat around a large, wooden war table, figures of troops and camps still strewn atop the large maps in couplings of live or fallen soldiers before them. D’ve sat across from them, gazing down at the table in consideration; it would be comforting to the others to know that the war was, as they’d thought, at a stand-still. The table seemed to display as much, considering the space they’d left between their current position and that of the other, surrounding camps and battlefields.

As he finished recounting his tale, D’ve leaned back in his chair and released a long breath, watching as those before him seemed to be appraising his account of the star. “I…know not what to make of these _sin eaters_, you called them,” Raubahn stated, breaking the silence, “But if the Warrior of Light is reunited with the Scions, then for that we are grateful, at least.”

“They are indeed safe, now?” Nanamo inquired, “The Scions, Emilia?”

“They are as well as they can be,” The miqo’te nodded, smiling. Relief flooded the small lalafellen’s face as she bent her head, releasing the clenched fist she’d bundled atop her chest with a soft, reassured sigh.

Kan-E-Senna spoke up, “This world, you said, it is stable now? No longer at the brink of a Calamity?”

Again D’ve nodded, shrugging, “That’s…difficult to answer.”

Merlwyb scoffed, “Well out with it boy, ‘tis a yes or no, not in between.”

“I…” He swallowed, “I mean, it’s essentially a yes, but…also no.”

“I know we have put you on the spot, as it were, but do you think you can elaborate for us?” Ser Aymeric pressed, before the others could interject. Both of his hands clasped beneath his chin as he leaned forward to listen, “I do not speak for the others in this regard, but I’ve not the experience with aether and calamity that some in this room may have. Personally, I find myself at a loss as to how it could be both, though we all do have the patience to hear your full explination.”

How was he to explain that the Ascian they’d slain was returned under the influence of Hydaelyn? That Elidibus, the last of the Unsundered, walked amongst the shadows, no doubt ready to push that star past its brink the moment she’d leave for the Source? That world was stable, for the moment, that much _was_ true, but that meant little if the Warrior of Light left now, “The star itself was almost completely lost, as I said,” He began, “The Ascians that were stationed there had pushed it nearly into a full wash of Light. They call it the Flood, there, but…Minfilia, our Minfilia, managed to stop it.” A few shifted in the room at that. He’d explained that much to them earlier as well, but he supposed now he needed to highlight more detail than before, “What remains past the borders of her interference is naught but white, crystalline ash—akin to that of the Burn on our own star.”

The others nodded grimly, “A small portion of life remains behind the borders of the Flood, but up to this point Emilia fought to keep that balance of elements in check by absorbing it into herself... Light, in this case, and returning night, balance, back to the star. This kept everything from being overwhelmed with that Light, or sin eaters overrunning it, at the very least.”

Urianger and the Exarch had explained this much to him, about the star, Minfilia, and Emilia’s plight in absorbing the Lightwarden’s Light, though he’d had a rudimentary guess at what’d happened once he, himself, witnessed what the Empty was. Any who had dabbled in aetherology itself or the history of the calamites understood how they were caused, though he supposed the science behind possibly reversing them had yet to be discussed in text. This was where they were now, attempting to figure out how to reverse the damage already done, “Now that Emilia has rid the Lightwardens, the star itself has been paused in its push towards achieving full saturation of one element. From what I understand of the other’s plan, we hope to restore others such that the First can begin to sustain and repair itself. Of course, whilst trying to figure out a means to return the Scions home.”

“Right,” Raubahn stated, frowning. D’ve had already explained how he and Yvette had managed to return to the Source, even highlighted why it was they and not the Warrior of Light herself, but the Alliance leaders still seemed unconvinced by his explanation. 

“Has there been any discussion about how they may return?” Kan-E-Senna asked, though by the tone of her voice D’ve knew she already could guess at his response. “The Scions, at least?”

He shook his head, “They had begun to discuss as much when we left, though by then I’m afraid no one solution had presented itself as being the best among them.”

“As I feared…” The Elder Seedseer murmured, frowning.

Nanamo cleared her throat, “We apologize for all the questions, dear,” The lalafellen woman shook her head, “But understand that we have been concerned for their well-being just the same. ‘Tis alarming to hear of the time that’s passed between both of these stars, years, months…I would have believed it a fable, had it not come from you.”

“As would I,” Merlwyb scowled, looking him over, “But it is well that ye’ve informed us all the same.”

D’ve bowed his head and smiled, “I wanted to make sure you were told of what’d happened, as well as having your questions answered, if I was able.”

As the Alliance leaders began to mull through his words, finishing their questions and conversation, the miqo’te rose and began to gather his things, thanking them for their hospitality. Each, in turn, thanked him for the information and wished him well on his travels, warning for any stray Empire soldiers on his journey back to Mor Dhona. Ser Aymeric, however, rose from his chair as D’ve began to leave, gesturing to the doors of the tent as he stood, “Allow me to accompany you to the borders, my friend.”

It wasn’t stated as a question, though he knew he wouldn’t push him be it that D’ve denied the request. “Ah, uhm…thank you.”

Lucia met the pair outside and moved in turn to follow behind them as they walked, following in the Commander’s shadow. As she did so, however, Aymeric halted her, “I will be but a moment,” He smiled, “If you will wait here for me.”

The knight frowned at him, eyeing the miqo’te as they began to walk away, but settled back against the canvased wall of the tent with a huff and a crossing of her arms. D’ve fidgeted as he followed Ser Aymeric back through the paths leading in and around the Alliance’s camp, somewhat uncomfortable being without even his Knight for company. The prospect of being in such close quarters with the Ishgardian leader wasn’t unfavorable, he didn’t dislike him, he would have felt awkward with any of the leaders. It was different this time, though—Emilia, Yvette, Estinein, the Scions, they weren’t here.

The land outside was as he remembered, battle worn and still aflame in many areas. It was from fallen or exploded Garlean equipment and war machina, D’ve noticed, but occasional bodies did lay unmoving amongst their number. The troops that had once stood in those fields now sat around the camps’ perimeter in their own groups, all looking slightly tired, slightly defeated. Injured lay in cots, all being treated by mages or medics, the remaining sat scattered about the courtyard either polishing weapons, training, or chatting by small campfires with food and drink. Not much conversation seemed to pass between them, just silent, vigilant watching—either of he and the Ishgardian Commander now passing, or of others around their campsite.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” Ser Aymeric began, looking down to the miqo’te before continuing, “I did not mean to force you into allowing me to join you.”

“It’s fine,” D’ve smiled, clearing his throat. “I don’t mind.”

The Lord Commander flashed him a short smile, seeming to assure him, but sighed as he turned back to look at their path ahead. “I…will admit that I had questions as well, that I wanted answered.” He began, “But I felt it best to approach you here rather than in the company of the others.”

“I see,” The Miqo’te nodded, “I…well, you’re welcome to ask. I don’t know if I have an answer for you, but I’ll try.”

The Ishgardian nodded, seeming to choose his words before he spoke, “I may be candid with you, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Right…” A long silence met the two as they walked on, D’ve waiting for the taller to continue, before Ser Aymeric cleared his throat, “I know…that you may not be at liberty to say, but the Warrior of Light…” D’ve felt a wash of anxiety fill him as he realized just what he was about to ask, “Is she truly…Emilia…is she alright?”

D’ve could feel the ears atop his head twitch. He’d conveniently left out the part where her soul had been nearly rent asunder, that her life still, even in slight repair from the warden’s and Emet-Selch, aired on the edge of death’s door. In his defense, he didn’t feel it necessary information for the others to know, at least until those comrades on the First could determine whether or not Emet-Selch was to be trusted or not. By now he didn’t think there was much the Ascian could do, withdrawn of his aether as he was, but until the other’s trusted him as well it’d be much harder to quell their anger and suspicion towards Emet upon the Source if he returned with them. If anything, once all knew of his past, both Garlean and Ascian alike, they’d forgo any kindness he may have shown to their Champion and lock him in a cell, again.

He feigned a smile, trying to brush off his question. “Emilia? She’s alright, I mean, as well as she can be, I suppose.”

The Lord Commander’s blue eyes narrowed slightly, a look of disappointment crossing his features, “Apologies, I know this is none of my business, I…I just worry, for her.” He paused, and D’ve could see his fists clench at his sides. For a moment, the miqo’te found himself curious as to whether his question was meant to just be a friendly inquiry, or if that worry burrowed deeper, had some sort of other feeling behind it. It seemed the case to him in this moment, he seemed angry, worried, but he was also an Alliance Leader—it wouldn’t be odd for the Ishgardian to fear for the Warrior of Light’s health, but…

Ser Aymeric had been quite friendly with Emilia in the Foundation, he remembered, more than once offering her succor or fretting after her well-being to he and the other Scion’s. At that time, of course, Emilia was found all too often drinking herself to a stupor in the Forgotten Knight. They knew it was in efforts to manage the deaths, countless during the war that she’d bore witness to or even committed in the name of Ishgard, but it was an unhealthy habit she took on. Her exposure to the dark arts, working alongside Fray and forgoing that of her white magic, had affected and warped some sense of her personality as well, if not for the lack of her sobriety. All that considered, she was not what D’ve had once met when he came across her in Limsa—now, stranded upon the First as she was, without he and Yvette, she did seem worse.

For a brief moment, D’ve remembered how she’d berate him in the Company house for leaving his Alchemy books strewn across the couches or floors…How she’d chase after him, throwing them at his ass as he’d run down the hallways to avoid her. Yvette all too often defended him, trying to get Emilia to see him for what he was, a teenager, at the time. The snack eating was also a warm memory, their first drink of ale altogether at the bar they’d built in the basement, Emilia’s first attempt at cooking for them—how burnt it tasted, and how they fibbed to make her feel better. 

All she did, he and the other’s new, was in hopes of being more helpful in the frontlines, of being the one to shoulder their responsibilities, to make life easier and happier. The liquor she downed was a tonic for nightmares that kept her up at night, it was for duties that were beginning to press and thin her humanity, a cleanser for the blood that shed and stuck, more and more often, to her blade.

“I know she is needed elsewhere. ‘Tis her duty, as the affairs of the Source lies to us in her absence, I just…” Ser Aymeric turned to look back at D’ve, and in that gaze he could tell that he was inferring to more than just her well-being, “I worry that she…may push herself too far.”

D’ve nodded—that’d been he and Yvette’s concern all along. “She is well, Ser Aymeric,” He reached up and patted the elezen on the arm, swallowing the words that he truly wanted to share with him. He wondered if Emilia realized how the elezen felt? “We have kept her in check thus far, and I intend for it to stay that way—that much I promise you.”

The smile the taller man gave didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes, but he did seem to relax his shoulders, fists, breathing out a slow and measured breath. As D’ve paused, Ser Aymeric nodded and bent, giving him a low, grateful bow. “You have my thanks.”

.

_THUD._

Emilia let out a huff as her ax swung again, burrowing deep into the olive tree before her. A bushel of bright, green frantoio’s fell by her feet with the impact, which she watched bounce as she wiped away sweat from her brow. Sy’nath jumped up and down happily, picking up the olives from the ground and placing them atop the other’s she’d now gathered in her little basket. Hades watched on as she grinned up to the hero, showing off the crops she’d harvested from just this tree alone.

All of the children seemed to be doing the same as the Warrior of Light, either picking herbs from bushes, harvesting from vines, trees, or cutting harvest away from branches low enough that they could reach. He’d been given one of the burlap sacks the elder boys had carried, which now sat before him nearly full to the brim with the children’s harvest. His job, whilst the others frolicked about picking and gathering food, was to take their findings and inspect for imperfections, bruising, and wilting. If they passed his review, then they were either deposited in the bag, or discarded in another that was to be fed to the Crystarium’s livestock.

The hero let out a grunt as she ripped her ax back from the tree, straightening herself once the blade had been freed from its trunk. Once it was latched back in its place along her back, she wiped away sweat and turned, again, looking up to the sun that rested overhead. Hades had lost track of just how long they had been out harvesting these various acoutrama of foods, but even he could see their daylight was beginning to set behind the trees.

“Let’s begin making our way to the Crystarium,” The Warrior of Light called, stepping back over to the graveled roads, “Bring your things and let’s line up like before.”

Hades watched amusedly as the children filed to her order, lining up as they had upon their journey into the forest. A few seemed to be struggling with their baskets, he noted, the smaller ones especially, either unable to stand or leaning to the ground with the weight of their bounty. When asked by others to lighten or share their load, however, the struggling children would deny the offer with furor and straighten, hoisting their baskets high from the ground for emphasis.

The hero chuckled as she set the group of kids to walk on, falling behind to wait for Hades to catch up to her.

“Not in the mind to lead the charge?” He quipped, tossing the heavy burlap sacks over his shoulders with a dull thump.

Emilia shrugged, “The older boys can lead them up through the paths well enough.” She paused, looking at his bags with a raised brow, “I thought I would make sure you wouldn’t…Injure your _back. _Carrying so much, that is.”

The comment caught him off guard, slightly. The Champion of Light had grown increasingly more…sardonic as he’d come to stay in her company, over these passing weeks at least. She was relaxing her guard, he supposed, but he didn’t expect her to keep with the jovial palaver after their initial conversation in the Crystarium.

He cleared his throat as she looked up at him, noting the amusement in her eyes, “This vessel is not as old as you seem to think, hero,” He mumbled, standing straighter for emphasis as they walked. “I can manage.”

She chuckled, watching him walk for a moment, “Last I’d checked, you were an immortal.” Emilia contemplated, “Even if the vessel may not be, you are, in fact, an old man.”

Hades bristled. No one had ever called him that before, “…Who would have thought that the Warrior of Darkness could have such a sense of _humor.”_

Emilia shrugged, “’Tis not a joke if it is truth, no?”

“All the same,” He mumbled, dejectedly, “’Tis truly a disservice that more don’t know of your amusing banter. The masses would so greatly appreciate your wit, I’m sure.”

She chuckled, this sarcasm didn’t seem to faze her, “There’s many a thing you didn’t know about me, Ascian, nor do the masses,” The Warrior of Light beamed, “And I shall ever pride myself on that.”

He jostled the bags back up on the tops of his shoulders, looking down at her from the corner of his eye. The afternoon sun shone brightly against her pale skin, coloring it a near white against the purple hued foliage they now walked amongst. A light dusting of pink colored at her cheeks, reaching beneath her eyes in an amused, almost innocent, dare he think it, blush. Hades swallowed, taking in the grey and white that colored the ends of her hair with a sudden catch of interest, “…How old are you, hero?”

Her smile faded quickly into an awkward expression of unease, her pace slowing to a near crawl, “Excuse me?”

“What is your age?” He could feel a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he asked again, watching her eyes widen. “If I had my guess, I’d say you were coming upon your…” He looked the woman over for a moment, noting the pallor of her skin, the muscles and way in which she held herself, confident, but cool, distant. “Twenty…fifth nameday?”

The blush that’d been present before began to darken to a near scarlet, deepening down the tip of her nose and cheeks. One of her gloved hands picked at the fabric of her coat-sleeve as she spoke, “I-I am well past my twenties thank you,” She murmured, then again with more strength, “I-I will say, I’m not sure what customs you had in Garlemald, Emet-Selch, but where I’m from, ‘tis rude to ask a woman her age.”

Hades chuckled. It was odd to think that someone, especially a Champion of people, bester of his brethren and nations, could be so conservative and shy talking about something as innocent as her age. “I’ll have you know, hero, ’twas an honor for a woman to be _asked_ her age in my time,” He stated, and that was not a lie. It was, “That meant she was being looked over as desirable, of age and quality to marry.”

Scarlet could not even begin to describe the pallor to her cheeks now.   
“T-This is not Garlemald,” Emilia huffed, turning her gaze away from him and back to the path at her feet. She began to walk again, but a few strands of her mismatched hair fell forward to cover the profile of her reddening face. As she retorted back, her voice was slightly softer, “And I am not Garlean.”

“Of course you are not,” He rounded, following after her with amusement. In that moment, he was aching to hear her thoughts, what’d off-set her so from his comment; did she like it? “Last I checked, Garlean’s don’t have tails or ears such as yourself, nor can they wield aether, for that matter.”

The long limb at the Warrior of Light’s back fell near flat against her legs, the tufts on her head lowering to lay back in the same manner as her tail. For a fleeting moment, Hades was reminded of the manner in which Persephone, Azem, would pout at him—none too different from the hero’s current mannerisms, minus the additional limbs. Hythlodaeus and he had exploited her easy flusterability many a time in the days of Amaurot, often times it was much too easy.

“I did not mean to offend you, hero,” Before he could stop himself, Hades lowered one of the bags from his shoulder and placed it on the ground. The Warrior looked up at him quizzically, brow furrowed, before he reached out and placed his hand firmly atop her head. He didn’t quite know what compelled him to do it, ruffling his fingers through the part in her hair, but it felt oddly satisfying to do. Her hair was much softer than he expected, like soft curtains or velvet, “Do not think too heavily on it.”

Emilia let out a small noise, like a surprised yelp, as he began to tousle her hair back and forth again. The ears that’d been flat against her skull now rose high on her head, twitching, acting almost like bumpers on either side of his hand as he moved his fingers back and forth vigorously, “I…W-wait,” Her face was now colored back to that same, flustered red, “E-Emet!”

He chuckled and paused in his movements, watching as she reached up and took hold of his wrist between both of her hands, holding him firmly. The size difference between his hand and her two small ones caught his eye for a moment, hers less than half the size of his own. In that moment, he could see the exposed skin of her fingers, see an excess of scars, some small and some large, extending to fingertips. They were patterns to more, he could see, pulling back beneath the gloves and surely up her hands-did they go further? “Apologies.”

Bright blue eyes stared back at him, her brow furrowing in both confusion and shock. As she straightened herself, he allowed her to remove his hand from the top of her head, holding it out between them like an offering. “It’s…fine.” The tip of her tail was twitching wildly behind her, swaying and jerking between either side of her legs like a metronome. He suppressed a chuckle, “Tch…my hair…”

As he bent to take back the bag, he watched as the smaller woman began to smooth her hair back against her head. She was trying to tuck a few strands back into her braid, but with the angle and length, she was quite unsuccessful in doing so. “Is the Warrior of Light so easily bested by a little tousle of her hair?”

Emilia huffed and crossed her arms atop her chest, glaring off to the side, “To be fair, I didn’t expect _you _to do something like that...”

Hades smirked and began to walk, looking back over his shoulder, “There’s many a thing you don’t know about me, hero, and I shall ever pride myself on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, everyone <3 
> 
> I don't have much to note, other than it's just been very difficult for me to write after the loss of my kitty. He was my writing buddy, and without him laying around and cuddling up to me as I'd work, it's felt a little weird trying to finish these chapters. 
> 
> Updates, again, may be sporadic but I am ever thankful and happy to see the comments, kudos, and more come into my notifications-it really helps me get an extra sentence out, sometimes. I will do my best to get another chapter or two in before the new year, now that break approaches for me! 
> 
> If you'd like to see Emilia/D've/Yvette art, feel free to check my twitter, I post a lot of arts, giveaways, streams, etc. there --> https://twitter.com/MagicaAria
> 
> Also, if you guys are on the search for a wonderful, inclusive, and supportive Emet/FFXIV fanfic community, I urge you to come by and join this discord! Be sure to mention what fic sent you - many of us lurk around AO3 with fics in this same pairing, among many many MANY others! Here is the INV link for any interested friends! ---> https://discord.gg/3qXRR4G


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